


A World So Small

by wordslinging



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anxiety, Gothic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-11
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:38:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordslinging/pseuds/wordslinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Frank, a sickly young man, is advised by his doctors to leave London for the country, he makes arrangements to stay with his friend Michael, who just so happens to be in possession of a large, old, and somewhat creepy manor house. What Frank has no idea of at the time is that Michael has an older brother, whose presence in the house he conceals. Gerard is an eccentric recluse who spends most of his time hiding in the attic and avoiding any kind of interaction with people, but he finds himself fascinated with Frank, who in turn realizes that the house has secrets, and becomes determined to uncover them. When he finally does discover Gerard, their first meeting is only the beginning of their story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bandom Big Bang in 2009, original master post with links to fanart and fanmix [here](http://wordslinging.livejournal.com/15150.html) on LJ.

When he was younger, Frank used to pretend that he had been cursed. He liked to imagine that his sickliness might be the work of some evil sorcerer or vengeful fairy, and that one day he might find some magic spell or potion that could cure him.

As he grew up, it became harder to hold on to such fantasies, and by the age of nineteen, he was resigned to the far less interesting truth—he was simply a sickly boy. Some accident of birth had left him small and weak, prone to coughing fits and highly susceptible to fevers, and no doctor his parents had ever consulted had ever found a way of correcting nature’s oversight.

Frank was doubtful that the latest doctor to examine him would succeed where any of the others had failed. Perhaps he would be able to provide some temporary balm, but Frank had long ago given up any hope of finding a cure that could make him truly strong or healthy. But even temporary balms, he had learned, were not to be scorned.

So he submitted once more to being poked and prodded, to having his heartbeat and breathing listened to and answering seemingly endless questions about his habits and diet. The doctor--a gruff but kindly old man with gold-rimmed spectacles and an impressive mustache--hemmed and hawed and wrote things down in a little notebook, and finally, when Frank rejoined his parents in the small office adjoining the examination room, informed the three of them that he felt Frank would benefit most from a change of scenery.

"London is the worst possible environment for a boy of his constitution, you see," the doctor told them gravely. "Smog and soot everywhere, not to mention the constant noise and crowds--frankly, it's a wonder he's not in worse health than he is."

Frank slouched down in his chair, ignoring a stern glance from his mother. He hated being talked about this way, though he ought to be used to it by now.

"What he needs more than any medicine I could give him," the doctor went on, "is fresh air, along with peace and quiet, as much as he can get. If you could arrange for him to travel somewhere with a milder climate, that would be ideal--somewhere on the Continent, perhaps. Failing that, any place in the countryside would still be far better for him than the city."

* * *

For the time being, at least, there could be no question of a trip to the Continent. The Ieros were not poor, by any means, but they weren't wealthy, either, and lacked any connections they might otherwise have been able to draw on for assistance.

There was, however, Mrs. Iero's sister, who lived in the country with her husband. As they were the only close relatives the family had living outside of the city, it seemed to both Mr. and Mrs. Iero that the best course of action was to write to them, and see if they would allow Frank to come and stay for a while.

Frank, unfortunately, was not in agreement with his parents.

"I don't want to go and stay with Aunt Hortensia and Uncle Edward," he said at supper the next day, bracing himself for the argument he knew would follow.

His parents exchanged slightly exasperated glances, and then his mother turned back toward him, asking, "Whyever not?"

"They don't like me," Frank replied matter-of-factly. "And to be perfectly honest, I don't like them."

"Frank, that's a dreadful thing to say about your aunt and uncle," his mother chided.

"Perhaps, but it's also true," Frank protested. "You _know_ they don't like me, it's why we don't visit them more often."

Frank knew that the animosity there was at least partially his own fault; as a child, he had been given to boisterousness when in good health, as if all the time he spent confined to his bedroom and forbidden any excitement had left him compelled to make up the difference when he could. His parents had always had a great deal of patience and understanding for his rambunctiousness, but the same couldn't be said for his aunt and uncle, particularly after he had broken a rather prized vase while visiting them one summer.

So Frank could understand perfectly why they might bear him some ill-will, but he wasn't a child anymore, and his vase-breaking days were behind him (well, for the most part). Nonetheless, Aunt Hortensia in particular still treated him exactly as she would an ill-behaved six-year-old, and the idea of spending weeks, perhaps months in her house was not an appealing one.

"Very well, they aren't as fond of you as they might be," his father conceded. "Although you could do more to win them over, I must say. But there isn't anyone else for you to go stay with, so--"

"There's no one else in our family," Frank pointed out. "But some of my friends have houses in the country, I could ask one of them--"

"I hope you mean 'ask' and not 'wheedle and beg until they give in'," his mother said. "I don't want you imposing yourself on any of your friends."

"But you don't mind me imposing myself on Aunt Hortensia and Uncle Edward, even though you know they wouldn't ask me to stay of their own accord," Frank countered.

"Family is different," his mother replied, in a tone of finality.

Frank's father looked back and forth between the two of them (in particular, at their matching stubborn expressions), and then spoke up.

"I think we can at least wait and see whether or not any of Frank's friends is willing to host him." Frank grinned at that, but before he could say anything, his father added sternly, "But if they aren't, you're going to your aunt and uncle's, whether you like it or not."

* * *

Finding a friend he could stay with in the country proved more challenging than Frank had originally suspected. He had drawn up two lists, the first of of people he knew with country homes, the second of friends close enough that Frank thought he could depend on their willingness to have him as a house guest for an unspecified length of time.

A comparison of the two lists yielded only four names that fit both criteria. Of those, Frank knew that two of them were currently touring the Continent. Each of them may be willing to let Frank use their homes in their absence, but it would take time for him to write to them and receive replies. Another was newly married, and had left his flat in London to set up house in the country with his wife. It may still be worth a try, but that _would_ be imposing, and Frank was reluctant to do it unless he was left with no other options.

That left Michael Way.

Frank and Michael had met two years ago through a mutual acquaintance, and formed a quick and easy friendship in spite of their differences in both personality and station. Michael was quiet, self-contained, and easily mistaken for humorless, a marked contrast to Frank's more expressive nature, and while Frank was a merchant's son, Michael was some manner of nobility--a viscount or a baron, Frank wasn't entirely sure. Michael never mentioned his title, seeming almost embarrassed by it, and Frank only knew of it from the gossiping of their other friends.

Gossip also held that Michael rarely entertained guests at his house in the country, which was supposed to be some sort of grand manor. Frank didn't know what reasons Michael might have for not wanting company at his house, but in the absence of any more ready options, surely it couldn't hurt for him to ask.

Michael divided his time between the city and the country, and, as luck would have it, was in London currently. At Frank's request, the two of them met in Michael's rooms, and Michael listened with characteristic quiet and patience while Frank explained his situation.

"I understand why you'd prefer to stay somewhere other than with your aunt and uncle," Michael said when Frank was finished, his tone sympathetic. "I'm afraid my house wouldn't be the most viable alternative, though."

"Oh," Frank said, disheartened. "Are you certain? I don't mean to press you, but I don't have many other alternatives of any kind."

Frank had it on good authority that when the circumstances called for it, he was capable of an extremely effective pleading look. His mother's admonition about wheedling as opposed to merely asking flashed through his mind, but not strongly enough to keep him from catching his lower lip between his teeth and raising his eyebrows hopefully.

"It isn't that I don't want to help you, or that I wouldn't enjoy your company," Michael told him. "But the house simply isn't in a fit state for visitors. You probably wouldn't even like it there, in any case, it's frightfully gloomy."

"I'd like it better than my Aunt Hortensia's, I'm certain, no matter what state it's in," Frank replied emphatically. "Honestly, Michael, as long as the roof's not falling in, I wouldn't mind. And I'd be on my best behavior, I promise. You wouldn't even know I was there."

"I doubt that," Michael said dryly, and sighed. "I don't know about this, Frank."

Frank tilted his head down just a bit, and let his eyes widen just a little. "Please?"

* * *

The arrangement they settled on was for Frank to make the journey to Way Manor a few days after Michael's return there, to allow the servants there some time to prepare for an unexpected houseguest. Frank used the time to pack, to inform other friends of his impending absence from London, and to listen to a good many admonishments from his mother on the subject of being a gracious guest.

Before he knew it, the day of departure arrived, and he said goodbye to his parents and climbed into the carriage that would take him to Way Manor. The journey was long, the road rough, and the countryside pleasant enough to look at but boringly unchanging, and Frank spent most of the day dozing fitfully in his seat, unable to fall asleep properly, unable to muster the energy or concentration to read or do anything else. It wasn't until dusk that he glanced out the carriage window and saw the manor looming up ahead of him.

It was like something out of a novel. The house itself was huge, and looked as though it had been grand once, before age and disrepair had taken their toll. The outbuildings and grounds were extensive, but Frank saw the same signs of neglect on some of the buildings, and the gardens the carriage drove past on its way to the house were wild and overgrown. Altogether it was far larger than Aunt Hortensia's house, which was the only thing Frank had to compare it to, but Aunt Hortensia would never have stood for such untidiness.

As he neared the house, however, Frank saw warm, inviting light spilling out of the open door, and Michael standing there, along with a man near his own age in clothes that seemed neat, if somewhat threadbare.

Frank cast one more glance up at the house as the carriage drew alongside it, craning his neck to see the upper stories. There were other lights on, mainly toward the center of the house, while the outer wings and topmost stories were dark.

For a moment, Frank thought he saw a flash of something white in the topmost window. He tried to get a better look, leaning forward until his forehead was pressed against the carriage window, but whatever it had been was gone.

There was no footman, so the driver hopped down to open the carriage door himself, and Frank climbed out, walking towards the front steps as Michael and the other man came down to meet him.

"Well," Frank said, spreading his arms with a hopeful smile. "Here I am."

"Here you are," Michael said, in his usual monotone, and then stepped forward, embracing Frank. "I hope the journey went well?"

"Well enough," Frank replied.

Michael pulled back and turned to the man standing next to him, laying one hand on his shoulder. "Frank, this is Brian--" the man interrupted with a small, polite cough, and Michael shook his head, smiling faintly. "Or, well, Schechter. He's in charge of the household staff."

"Mr. Iero," Schechter said, punctuating the statement with a quick bow. "Please don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything."

It was on the tip of Frank's tongue to ask Schechter not to call him 'Mr. Iero', for one, but given how the man had reacted to Michael using his first name, perhaps that wouldn't be the best idea.

"Thank you," was all he said, bobbing his head in response to Schechter's bow. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"I'll show you to your room," Michael said. "Brian, have his things brought up?"

Schechter nodded. "Second floor, third bedroom on the left," he said briskly, then bowed to Frank again before moving toward the carriage.

Michael put his arm around Frank's shoulders, turning and steering him up the stairs. "Brian can be a bit...abrupt," he said as they walked, "He's also used to not having anyone but me to wait on, and I think he's worried about seeming too informal in front of a stranger. But he's a good fellow."

"He certainly seems to know what he's doing," Frank replied, and Michael smiled.

"Oh, certainly. This place would be even more of a shambles than it is without him. Which I'm sorry for, by the way--we keep the main wing and the servants quarters in good shape, but the rest has gone to seed, I'm afraid."

"Oh, no, it's fine," Frank assured him, and if it turned out to be less than fine, well, that was what he got for pressing his company on Michael on short notice. "Your house is _amazing_ , I had no idea it would be so big. How do you keep from getting lost in it?"

"Well, as I said, I only really use the main wing," Michael explained as the two of them stepped through the open door.

The front hall was spacious and a bit drafty, the walls bare stone, the floor dark marble cut through the middle by a long Turkish rug. There were a few portraits decorating the walls, either country scenes or people Frank assumed were some of Michael's ancestors, as well as a tapestry with a coat of arms and a mounted stag head with immense antlers, which seemed to be staring at Frank quite unnervingly with its glass eyes.

Across the way from the front door were two long, curving staircases, sweeping up on either side until they met at a landing and continued on as one. The foyer was well-lit, but the stairway was dark, so Michael took a candle from a long, low table before leading Frank up.

"It's only been me here the past few years, since my grandmother's death," Michael went on. "I don't have guests often, and it seemed pointless to keep the full staff of servants we used to have, or to have the ones I kept on look after parts of the house that were never used. The main wing is cozy enough, never fear, but the outer wings are a bit of a mess, and you'll want to stay clear of the upper stories and the attic."

"Why, what's up there?" Frank asked, remembering the flash of white he'd seen, or thought he'd seen.

"Dust and spiders, mostly," Michael informed him, and Frank shuddered, grimacing. Dust was an eternal enemy, given how easily it could set him to coughing, and he had a lifelong fear of spiders.

Frank's room was, as Schechter had said, the third room on the left when they reached the second floor. It was larger than his room at home, with old-fashioned but sturdy-looking furniture and a fire already blazing in the hearth.

"Supper should be ready soon, if you'd like to rest a bit," Michael said, adding, in a typically Michael fashion that made it difficult to tell if he were joking or not, "I'll come and fetch you, just to make sure you don't get lost."

After Michael had gone, Frank crossed to the small table that held a pitcher and basin, splashing his face with cold water, and then sat down on the bed, looking around. However the house might look from the outside, the room did seem pleasant, and was quite warm with the fire going. Once he had some of his things set up, to make it feel a bit more like home, he thought he would be quite comfortable for the duration of his stay.

When he and Michael went down to supper, they walked through a dining room bigger than any Frank had ever set foot in, with a table that would have filled his parents' dining room from corner to corner. But the room was dark and everything was covered by dust cloths, and Michael led him on into a smaller and much friendlier-seeming breakfast room, close to the noise and warmth of the kitchen. The maid who served them--Hannah, Michael called her--smiled shyly at Frank and was far more personable than Schechter had been, and the food was excellent. Altogether, it was a very pleasant meal.

Tired from the long carriage ride, Frank sought his bed soon after supper. It was strange, as going to bed in an unfamiliar place always is, and for some time he lay awake, listening to the creaks and odd noises of the old house around him. He was too tired to remain wakeful for long, however, and soon drifted off.

* * *

Frank began his first morning at Way Manor by oversleeping, and discovering when he woke that he had not missed breakfast in spite of his laziness. Michael was not in the habit of rising early himself, and the servants' custom was to simply set out a cold breakfast that their master could enjoy at his leisure.

After he had eaten, Frank spent the rest of the morning unpacking and putting his room in order. It was a clear, sunny day, and he opened all the windows, letting the fresh air drive away the slight musty smell that lingered in the room in spite of its having been thoroughly cleaned before his arrival. Michael came by and offered to help, but as Frank preferred to arrange everything to his satisfaction himself, Michael's help consisted mainly of sitting on the bed, picking things up to look at them as Frank spread them out on the mattress, and keeping Frank engaged in conversation as he worked.

In the afternoon, Michael disappeared into his study with a mention of business he must attend to, and Frank explored the rest of the main wing. There were bedrooms (all shuttered and cloth-draped except his and Michael's, which Frank glanced at through the open door but didn't enter), parlors (the two nearest the front hall kept presentable, the rest closed), a music room (containing a piano that showed signs of recent use and a harp that did not), a library (Frank had brought a few books from home, but made a note to explore the library's collection as well), the dining room and breakfast room he had already seen, and the kitchen and servants' quarters. Frank didn't enter the last, being unsure how the servants (particularly Schechter) would take that, but he did venture into the kitchen, introducing himself to the cook--a cheerful, matronly woman named Betsy--and stealing one of the crumpets she was preparing for tea.

Tea was served in what seemed to be the second-best parlor, which Frank didn't mind at all, given that it seemed less ornate and formal than the best parlor, and he was less afraid to touch things. Having already been downstairs, he arrived before Michael, and passed the time while waiting for him looking at the pictures on the walls.

One wall was dominated by a portrait of a young lady sitting in an arbor, holding a bouquet of wildflowers in her lap. She was pretty, if a bit solemn-looking, and Frank thought he saw a resemblance to Michael in her features, though the clothes she wore and the style of the painting suggested the image had been committed to canvas long ago, perhaps sixty years or more.

On the wall opposite the painting of the young lady were two smaller ones. Frank was no expert, but it seemed to him that they had both been painted by the same hand, a different one than that of the first painting. The first showed another young lady--a girl, really, she looked no more than fifteen--with a slightly less antiquated appearance and, again, a certain resemblance to Michael. The second was of two children; one a boy of perhaps three or four, dressed in a short jacket and trousers, dark hair curling about a round face, the other a baby in what may have been a christening gown, seated on the older child's lap.

There were no other paintings in the room, but there were a few photographs, which Frank also examined. There was an old daguerreotype of a stately woman who might be the girl in the first painting, grown into middle-age, a tintype of a handsome young couple and two boys (who Frank thought were the children from the third painting, both a bit older here), and, set in a hinged case on a table, two more recent-looking photographs, both of young men. Frank picked the case up to examine the two pictures; one was Michael, a few years younger than he was now and posed somewhat stiffly by a mantle, and the other was an older man, who bore a faint resemblance to Michael, but with rather rounder and softer features. When Frank held the case up, so that he could view the photograph alongside the painting of the children, it seemed very possible that the strange young man could be the older boy, grown up.

"I see you found the right parlor without difficulty."

Michael's dry voice came from behind him, and Frank started, almost dropping the case. Abashed, he set it carefully back in the spot he had taken it from before turning. Michael didn't seem bothered by his having picked it up, however; he had already crossed to the table where the tea things were set out, and was pouring cups for himself and Frank. Frank took his tea when Michael offered it, and looked back at the largest portrait, that of the young woman in the arbor.

"The woman in the painting," he began. "Is she--?"

"My grandmother," Michael confirmed, nodding. "And that one--" he pointed to the other young lady, "is my mother, and this--" he tapped the frame that held the photograph of the family, "is her and my father. I don't have many pictures of them, they died when I was quite young."

"I'm sorry," Frank said. He knew that Michael had been raised mainly by his grandmother, but not the circumstances that had led to that turn of events. "If I might ask--how did they die?"

Michael's expression was a bit shadowed, but it seemed to be more with the memory of pain than with any continued suffering. "They were driving home from a visit with friends, and their carriage lost a wheel. The driver was thrown from his seat and lived to tell of the accident, but the carriage plunged into a ravine, with both of them inside."

Frank's eyes widened a bit; he had had no idea that Michael's history contained anything so dramatic. "How terrible," he murmured.

Michael shrugged. "As I said, I was quite young. It was harder on my grandmother, I think--there's something uniquely horrible about a parent outliving their child."

Frank nodded in agreement, and sipped his tea. When a few moments had passed, and the rather obvious gap in Michael's explanations remained unfilled, he asked, "What about the other boy in the picture, and this other painting? I assume one of them is you, but..."

Michael's brow furrowed, and he seemed more reluctant to answer now than when Frank had asked about his parents' death. "That's Gerard," he said at length. "My brother."

"Your--Michael!" Frank exclaimed, chiding. "You never said you had a brother! Does he live here, or in London? Why haven't I met him yet?"

"I would have introduced you to him long ago, if I could," Michael replied, his tone grim. "He disappeared, I'm afraid."

"What?" Frank asked, perplexed. "How? What do you mean, 'disappeared'?"

"Just that," Michael said, spreading his hand. "One morning, not long after our grandmother's death, he was gone from the house, and I never found him, or learned what became of him."

"Oh." Frank looked back at the photographs in their double case, at the round-faced young man whose image stood alongside Michael's own. Between the long hair curling about his ears and neck, the wide eyes, and the vaguely startled expression, as if he had been caught off-guard by the picture even though he must have posed for it, Michael's brother looked more like a captive wild creature than a young nobleman.

"I'm so sorry," Frank said, looking back up at Michael. Michael who had lost not only his parents and grandmother, but a brother as well. "I had no idea."

Michael was silent a moment, then reached out and touched Frank on the shoulder lightly, offering a faint smile. "It's all right. I don't speak of it often, but I can, when I must." Jerking his head back towards the table, he added, "Come and sit down, have something to eat."

The refreshments were both delicious and plentiful; in addition to the crumpets Frank had sampled earlier, there were jam tarts, cucumber sandwiches, and fairy cakes with delicate icing, all of which the two young men set into eagerly.

"She'd be cross if she knew I told you," Michael mumbled around a mouthful at one point, "but Betsy's decided you need fattening up. And she's been on a campaign to fatten me up for at least fifteen years, so I should warn you she doesn't admit defeat easily."

"Oh, dear," Frank replied, with a horror he didn't at all feel, as he reached for another tart. "I shall have to do my best to withstand the onslaught, then."

* * *

On his second day at the manor, Frank had intended to explore the grounds and gardens a bit, remembering his doctor's admonishments to get plenty of fresh air. This proved impossible, however, as he woke to thunder outside and torrential rain beating at the windows. There was no sign of its clearing up soon, and even if it did the grounds would be horribly muddy, and so he resigned himself to seeking amusement within the house, instead.

He considered his books, but as he had brought only a few of them, and they were to be his only sure source of occupation on days such as these, it seemed best to make them last, and look for some other means of entertainment by which he might supplement them. This quest took him to the library, where he was quickly disappointed to find that a great many of the books there seemed exceedingly dull.

Frank was not the sort of person who disdained books in general; he found a great enjoyment in them, but only in the right sort. He loved tales of adventure or mystery, was not at all averse to reading poetry, and sometimes, depending on the subject, he could take a lively interest in works of satire.

Perusing the shelves of the manor's library, he saw some poetry, but very little satire, and nothing that seemed to hold much promise of adventure. There seemed instead to be a great deal of books devoted to history, politics, and philosophy (or combinations such as the history of philosophy or the philosophy of politics). Frank had been known to take some interest in history--the events it described, wars and assassinations and the like, were often interesting even when the language used to relate them was dull--but he had no patience for politics when they were presented in any form other than satire, and had found philosophy useful only to help him fall asleep on wakeful nights. He looked a while longer, certain that Michael, who was not nearly as dull as he seemed to the untrained eye, _must_ be in possession of more interesting books, but he found nothing that excited his interest, and shortly abandoned his search to go and pester Michael instead.

This pestering included a joking complaint about the contents of the library, which Michael apologized for. "I'm certain I have some books somewhere that would be more to your liking," he said, "but they may have been put away somewhere besides the main library. I'll look for them."

The storm continued throughout the day, sometimes pausing for a few moments only to resume with full force the moment Frank began to cherish a hope of going outside after all. It was still raining when Frank went to bed, but the thunder had abated somewhat, and he found the steady patter on the windowpanes tolerable and even comforting, an easy sound to drift off to sleep to.

It was somewhat less comforting when he was woken by thunder once more, this time in the dead of night. Jolted into sudden wakefulness, Frank sat up in bed, looking out of the windows. It was very dark, but flashes of lightning gave occasional illumination, and the scene they revealed was as wild and romantic as anything out of a novel: the moors around the manor in chaos, rain coming down in sheets while the wind whipped the long grass back and forth and made it look more like a storm-tossed sea than solid land.

As he watched, there was a dramatic flash of lightning and a clap of thunder so loud it was alarming. Frank started, letting out a little cry of surprise--and then paused. In all likelihood, it was nothing but the thunder echoing in his ears, but for a moment, he could have sworn he heard a second cry, much louder than his own, from above. He listened carefully, and could not discern anything else that might be a voice--but after a few seconds, there were some muffled thumps that could well have been footsteps.

Frank hesitated, but his curiosity was roused, and after a moment he threw back the covers and got out of bed, donning a dressing gown and slippers and lighting the small lamp that stood on his bedside table.

Stepping out into the hallway, he found it empty, but noticed that Michael's door, across the landing from his own, was wide open. Crossing to the door and glancing into the room, Frank saw no sign of his host, and noticed that the bedclothes had been thrown back carelessly, as if Michael had risen and left the room in haste.

Frank looked towards the wide staircase, which turned when it reached the landing and continued up. There was no light but his own small lamp, and it only served to illuminate a few feet, leaving most of the staircase in shadow. Frank was not afraid of the dark, not particularly, but under the circumstances--standing alone in a massive old house with a storm raging outside and darkness all around--he wasn't ashamed to admit to a certain nervousness. He took a moment to steel himself, and then proceeded towards the stairs, only to whirl around when he heard a noise behind him.

Schechter stood at the end of the hall, holding a lamp of his own. On seeing Frank, his brow furrowed, but he gave no other sign of surprise.

"May I help you with anything, sir?" he asked, as brisk and polite as he had been every time Frank had spoken to him.

"I thought I heard something from upstairs," Frank said. "It sounded like someone crying out, and then footsteps."

"I beg your pardon, sir, but I doubt that," Schechter told him, not even glancing towards the staircase. "If you heard anyone cry out, it must have come from downstairs."

While not entirely certain what it was he had heard, Frank had no doubts that the noises had come from above him. Frowning a bit, he asked, "And the footsteps?"

"Something torn loose by the storm, perhaps," Schechter replied smoothly. "I'll have someone go up and check the roof for damage tomorrow." He paused, looking at Frank calmly, and then said, "If I might make so bold as to say, sir, wandering about on such a wet night as this hardly seems likely to encourage good health. Perhaps you should go back to bed?"

In spite of Schechter's polite, deferential tone, it felt more like a command than a request, and Frank's first instinct was to balk at it. But curiosity about strange noises and a dislike of being told what to do did not provide him with a very good reason to object to the suggestion, and, after casting one last curious glance up the dark stairway, he returned to his room.

* * *

The rain continued the next day, though not as fiercely, and a hope that it might clear up by afternoon did not seem entirely vain. Frank passed some of the morning writing a letter to his parents, in which he informed them of his safe arrival, described the house, and assured them that he could already feel the benefits of the marvelous country air (he couldn't, but knew such a statement would reassure his mother). He could only write so much, however, and by ten o'clock he was at loose ends, with Michael once again ensconced in his study and the rain still falling outside.

He briefly considered an exploration of the uninhabited outer wings of the manor house, unable to see what harm it might do, since while he had been told that they were dark, drafty, and unpleasant, he had not at any point been _forbidden_ to enter them. He soon discovered, however, that such a verbal restriction would have been unnecessary--upon finding a door that seemed to lead out of the main wing, he tried it and found it locked. The case was the same on the other side of the house, and a wish to avoid seeming nosy or prying kept Frank from searching for any more doors to try. It seemed, therefore, that he had effectively been forbidden from the outer wings even without words to that purpose.

To have more than half the house locked away from him rankled a bit. But then, perhaps it was nothing to do with him--perhaps it was Michael's habit to keep those doors locked at all times, since the rooms were never used. And, seeing as Michael was doing Frank a great favor by letting him stay at the manor, and since he had done it over his initial misgivings, to be upset over not being let into rooms that he had, after all, no business being in seemed a poor way to repay his friend's generosity.

Defeated in his plan, Frank resigned himself to another day spent in the rooms he had already explored, and, for lack of any other ideas for amusement, turned to one of the books he had brought from home. He took it from his room, however, and went to sit in the library, where there were large, comfortable wing chairs and a hearth where he kindled a cheerful fire without difficulty, not bothering to trouble the servants with something he could so easily do for himself.

Just as he was settling in to read, however, something caught his eye. It was a chest, fashioned out of plain dark wood and tucked into a corner near the fireplace. It was small enough that a man might easily lift it, provided its contents were not too heavy, but large enough that he felt sure he would have noticed it the day before, if it had been there. Curious, Frank rose from his chair and went over to examine the chest, and, finding it unlocked, he opened it to reveal a good many books stacked inside.

Looking through them, Frank noticed that they seemed to be largely novels of the sort that were filled with mouldering castles, terrible secrets, dastardly villains, and imperiled heroines--the sort of books, in other words, that were typically adored by young ladies and disdained (at least outwardly) by young men. Frank had never held such lofty attitudes about novels, or allowed his enjoyment of them to be affected by any prejudice but his own. If he began a book and found himself bored with it, he would cast it aside without a second thought, but if the story engaged his interest, he would read it with great eagerness, and be not at all troubled by anyone else's opinion of it.

Frank glanced through the titles; he saw Walpole's _The Castle of Otranto_ , which he had read when he was younger, Lewis's _The Monk_ , which he had been expressly forbidden to read (and made to return to the bookseller by his mother), Polidori's _The Vampyre_ , Beckford's _Vathek_ , a whole slew of works by Anne Radcliffe, and more, some he had read before and others he had not, enough to keep him occupied for months even if he read each one quickly.

In his delight at this discovery, the book he had brought down with him was utterly forgotten. A short time later, Michael came downstairs and found Frank sitting cross-legged in front of the fire with books in untidy piles all around him, already several chapters into _The Monk_. At his friend's approach, Frank looked up, speaking before Michael could.

"These are wonderful," he said enthusiastically. "That you for finding them for me."

For a moment, Michael's expression was blank, and he seemed almost taken aback. Then, he smiled. "Of course. It's been ages since I read any of those, myself, but I knew they had to be about the house somewhere."

* * *

The rain stopped sometime during the night, and the next morning dawned clear and sunny, finally affording Frank an opportunity to explore the grounds. He and Michael went out together after breakfast, touring the kitchen gardens, which were well-tended and neatly kept, the flower gardens, which were overgrown and choked with weeds, but had a certain wild beauty, the orchard, also overgrown but full of ripe summer fruit, and the stables and carriage house, where Frank exclaimed over the horses and fed them apples he'd taken from the orchard.

In the afternoon, Frank took _The Monk_ and went back out, finding a small arbor he and Michael had passed on their walk. It was in the same state of romantic disrepair as much of the property, paint long gone and vines twining thickly around the wood. The bench he sat down on creaked alarmingly, but held steady, and Frank settled himself comfortably before turning his attention to the book, losing himself in the strange, lurid tale.

As he read, though, he became aware of a new sensation, one that kept the book from claiming his undivided attention. It was queerly like the feeling he had when knowing he was being watched by someone, but when he raised his head and glanced around, there was no one about who could have been watching him. The feeling persisted nonetheless--no doubt encouraged by his imagination, but telling himself that did not help him to curb it.

Putting the book down for a moment, Frank stood up, looking about himself again. There was no one in sight, merely the arbor behind him, a tall hedge across from him, a little gate leading to another part of the grounds on one side, and the house on the other. He turned his gaze toward the house, but could see no activity in any of the windows, no sign that anyone might have been watching him.

He was unsure, by this point, how much of the strange sensation had been truly felt and how much imagined. But whether it was the product of his fancy or not, he was left unsettled by it, and repaired inside soon afterward.

* * *

A few days later, Michael announced at breakfast that he had an engagement that afternoon in Thornton, the little town a few miles from the manor.

"Would you like to come along?" he asked. "The engagement is nothing exciting--a business matter you would find terribly dull, I imagine--but the town is quite charming, and you could walk about a little, if you liked."

Frank accepted the invitation gladly, and they set out shortly after lunch. Thornton was, as Michael had said, charming; vastly different from London, but busy in its own cheerful way, and its quaint houses and neat gardens put Frank in mind of villages in picture books he had loved as a child. The two friends parted ways in the main square after agreeing upon a time to meet again, and while Michael went on to his business engagement, Frank wandered about at his leisure. From the looks he attracted as he walked, he deduced that this was the sort of small town in which a stranger is recognized as such immediately, but as he was a stranger with the appearance of a gentleman, neat and well-groomed, no one troubled him.

It was a warm, sunny day, and walking about soon left Frank both tired and thirsty. Turning back in the direction of the square, so that he should have no trouble arriving back there at the appointed time, he found a small tavern, and stepped inside in search of both something to drink and a place to rest his feet.

He expected to be an object of curiosity in the tavern, as he had been while walking the streets, and was not disappointed. He bore it cheerfully, answering the questions put to him by the barkeep and the patrons sitting nearby, and found that their interest increased greatly when they learned he was Michael’s guest.

“It’s been some time since there were any guests to speak of up at Way Manor,” one man commented, eying Frank over the rim of his drink as he added, “I suppose you’re not troubled by the rumors, then.”

Frank had already had the attention of a good portion of the tavern’s patrons; now, he felt even more eyes turn towards him. No one said anything for a moment, and then the barkeep cleared his throat loudly and spoke up. “There’s no need to bring any of that up, Davies, and even if it were, it’s not your place.”

There were a few murmurs of agreement at that, but Frank shook his head. “No, don’t leave it there. What rumors?”

“The ones about the older Way brother, of course,” Davies replied, seeming surprised. “Have you not heard them?”

“You shouldn’t be troubling the gentleman with this,” the barkeep broke in again, a stern frown on his face. “You talk too much.”

“You’re not troubling me,” Frank said. “M—Lord Way told me about his brother, though I don’t know why you think I’d be bothered by it—”

Davies raised his eyebrows at that, a peculiar gleam in his eyes. “Aye? I suppose he told you that Gerard just disappeared? Ran off in the night?”

“Well…yes,” Frank replied, brow furrowed. “What else would he have told me?”

“Lord Way told that same story to anyone who asked after his brother when Lady Helena died,” Davies told him, and shrugged. “And I suppose that’s one way to explain a man vanishing without a trace, but if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, there are others.”

“That’s enough—” the barkeep began, but before he could finish Frank sat up straight, eyes narrowing in suspicion and jaw tightening in anger, and cut him off.

“Are you—are you suggesting Michael might have _done_ something to—”

Davies spread his hands, not seeming particularly troubled by Frank’s anger. “All I’m saying is it’s possible. No one knows what really happened, and I don’t suppose any of us ever will.”

“But it _isn’t_ possible,” Frank insisted, one hand curling into a fist at his side. He was dimly aware that all eyes in the room were on him now, all other conversation hushed, but he was too angry to care about the attention he was attracting. “Michael would never—the very idea is ridiculous, not to mention insulting.”

“Well, and you’d know better than I, I suppose,” Davies said in a placating tone. “But I’m not the only one who wonders about what might have happened up at the manor, whether anyone else here will admit it or not.”

Frank glanced at the others gathered around, most of whom avoided his eyes. “Is that true?”

After a moment, the barkeep nodded reluctantly. “Aye, sir, there’s been some speculation. Nothing that I would’ve thought it right to trouble you with—”

He shot a hard look at Davies, who merely shrugged again. “A man has a right to know what might’ve happened in the house he’s staying in.”

“You don’t know what happened or didn’t any more than the rest of us do,” the barkeep told him sternly, and turned back to Frank. “It’s idle gossip, sir, and no harm meant by it. We think very highly of Lord Way in Thornton; he’s always done right by us.”

“You think highly of him, and yet you spread this sort of gossip about him?” Frank asked, not mollified.

“Most folk in town don’t truly believe he did anything,” the barkeep countered. “And even among those who think he might have, the general feeling is that if he did, his hand was likely forced.”

Frank’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“What you must understand, sir, is that Gerard Way was…strange. Touched in the head, most of us thought, if not all his life, then at least after his parents died.”

“Why would you think such a thing?” Frank asked, but he was already thinking back to the picture he’d seen of Gerard, of the lost, startled look on his face.

“Well, the way he behaved,” the bartender explained. “He was the older son, but when he grew up, he left the running of the estate to Lady Helena while he stayed in his room and amused himself. I could count on one hand the times I saw him in town doing any sort of useful business, but he used to hang about the churchyard and ask the vicar all sorts of strange things. And when he got older, we never saw him at all--he stayed shut up in the manor, and according to the servants there, he barely ever left his bedroom.”

Davies spoke up again, taking over the explanation. “Ask anyone who knew him before his parents’ death and after—and there’s a good number of people in this town who used to be in service at the manor, who were dismissed after Lady Helena’s death—and they’ll tell you Gerard Way was never the same after his parents’ death. And they’ll also tell you that if he wasn’t mad while his grandmother was still alive, her dying pretty well did him in. No one knows for certain what happened, no, but most of us don’t find it too unlikely that he might have tried to do some mischief to his brother or himself.”

“So—” Frank paused, swallowing hard. “So you think if Michael…did anything, it was an accident? Or self-defense?”

“Something like that, sir,” the barkeep said. “Lord Way’s a good man, everyone in Thornton knows that, but even a good man might do something desperate in a desperate situation.”

* * *

Frank left the tavern quiet and thoughtful, more disquieted than he liked to admit. It was all a falsehood, surely—Michael could never have done such a thing—but even as he attempted to assure himself of that, he remembered Michael’s reluctance to discuss his brother, and of the way he always kept his private and public lives separate, hardly ever inviting friends from the city to the manor or discussing his affairs there with them. Even now, with Frank in the house, Michael kept himself to himself, with locked doors and long hours spent alone in his study.

It was one thing to think him secretive and occasionally unsociable, however, and quite another to suspect him of foul play. Frank told himself this, and attempted to banish any thoughts to the contrary, but was not as successful as he would have liked. When he and Michael met back in the square, his troubled thoughts must have shown on his face; once they were on their way back to the manor, Michael asked if there was anything wrong, and Frank’s denial was apparently less than convincing, for he smiled wryly.

“Someone’s been telling you awful things about me, haven’t they?” Michael sounded somewhat bitter, but not greatly surprised. “I had a feeling they might.”

“You—you know, then?” Frank asked. “The sort of things they say about you?”

“Of course I know,” Michael said lightly, looking out the carriage window. “Thornton’s not the sort of town that keeps secrets well, as you may have noticed, and many of the servants at the manor have family there. That’s why I thought it would be useless to try and keep you from hearing some of it eventually.” He glanced over at Frank, raising his eyebrows a little. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

Frank often had difficulty knowing if Michael was trying for a joke or not, and this was certainly one of those times. He decided to treat it as though it weren’t a joke, and shook his head firmly.

“Of course not. I’m just surprised you put up with that sort of rumor-mongering.”

“What else is there for me to do?” Michael asked, his eyes returning to the passing scenery outside. “People talk. If I tried to put a stop to it, that would only give them more to talk about.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Frank agreed reluctantly, and they both lapsed into silence for the remainder of the journey.

* * *

It was a few days after that that Frank found the drawing.

He had finished _The Monk_ , and had selected _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ , another book he hadn’t read before, to begin next. When he opened the book, however, he was distracted from reading it when a folded square of paper that had been tucked between the pages came loose and fluttered to the ground.

Frank bent to pick the paper up and unfold it; it was a drawing sketched in pencil on slightly yellowed paper, a landscape of flat, open country with rolling hills on the horizon. There was something familiar about it, and when Frank turned towards his bedroom window, his suspicion was confirmed—it was the countryside around the manor, as seen from the northern side of the house.

He showed the sketch to Michael at tea that afternoon, thinking perhaps he might have left it in the book. Michael took it with an odd look on his face.

“Oh,” he said softly, examining the drawing. “This is—Gerard did this, I think.”

“Was he an artist?” Frank asked, before it occurred to him that Michael might not like to talk about his brother. But Michael didn’t seem at all bothered by the question, and simply nodded.

“It runs in our family, I suppose you could say, although it passed me by.” He gestured to the painting of his grandmother as a young woman, explaining, “Both my maternal grandparents painted, and my grandfather had a certain amount of success as a painter—I doubt many people would recognize his name today, but he was fairly well-known in his own time, and that painting was part of my mother’s dowry.”

“I can see why,” Frank said sincerely. He had often stopped to admire the painting in question when he was in the parlor. “It’s beautiful.”

“As for my grandmother, she did that painting of my mother, and the one of Gerard and I as children,” Michael went on. “When my grandfather died, my grandmother came to live with us here, and then, of course, she raised us after the accident. Gerard studied under her.”

“Are there any paintings by him in the house?” Frank asked, only to catch the subtle change in Michael’s expression that meant he was starting to be ill at ease with Frank’s line of inquiry.

“Not on display,” Michael replied. “He was often nervous about showing his work to anyone outside the family, so his paintings were rarely ever framed or mounted. I believe most of them are still packed away in his studio upstairs.”

* * *

Frank was aware that it was, in all likelihood, a bad idea to go upstairs in search of Gerard’s studio. It was nosiness, and prying into areas of Michael’s life that he hadn’t been invited into, and going behind his back to do it.

The trouble, of course, was that the more he thought about all the reasons he shouldn’t do it, the greater his curiosity grew—curiosity not just about the paintings themselves, but about Gerard, about this part of Michael’s life that Frank had never known existed until he came here, and that he could only glean information about from the things Michael’s brother had left behind. And there would be no harm in it, surely; he was just going to look for some paintings, and it wasn’t as if Gerard was on hand to object to their being seen any longer. Besides which, Frank wouldn’t be surprised if he gained the upper stories only to be confronted with more locked doors, in which case it wouldn’t matter.

It was late afternoon, and Michael had left his study to discuss something with Schechter, showing his usual disregard for propriety by going downstairs rather than summoning Schechter upstairs. There was no one on the second floor but Frank, affording him an opportunity to steal up the wide staircase in daylight without attracting Michael’s notice. His conscience gave another slight pang as that thought occurred to him, but nonetheless, he left his room and crossed the hall to stand by the staircase, one hand on the banister, glancing up. He paused, listening for any signs of someone coming up to the second floor, and, hearing none, began to climb.

The third floor hallway was quiet and still, dust settling thickly on the floor. Frank found himself feeling compelled to walk softly, not only to avoid making enough noise to be heard downstairs, but because it felt wrong to disturb the silence, as it would have in a church or a mausoleum. The first door he tried was locked, as he had expected, but before he could try another, something else caught his notice.

There were clear footprints in the dust on the floor, some of them undoubtedly his own, and something he had failed to take into account in his plan to come up here without anyone noticing. But he was distracted from worrying about that by the fact that there were other footprints, made by someone with larger feet than his own, leading down from the fourth floor and then back up.

He walked back to the staircase and stood there, peering up, but all was dim and silent above him. After a moment, he started up, moving with the same cautious quiet he had employed in the hallway. The fourth floor, when he reached it, was much like the third had been—with the exception that a door at the end of the hallway was standing slightly ajar.

Frank hurried forward before he could think to check his curiosity, pushing at the door gently. It gave a slight creak as it swung open further, and he froze for a second, biting his lip, but hopefully the noise hadn’t been loud enough to be heard all the way on the first floor. The room beyond was dark, the windows shuttered so that only a few scant traces of daylight leaked in. There were shapeless masses that were likely furniture covered with cloths, and, across from where Frank stood, another door.

He started to walk forward, only to freeze again as he felt something across his face and realized he’d walked straight into a spiderweb.

Spiders were one of the few truly irrational fears Frank had. Not that there was anything so irrational about fearing them, he would be quick to point out to anyone who mocked him for it, but for him it went beyond rational concern and into blind panic. He backed away from the spot quickly, pawing wildly at his face and hair. The cool, wispy feel of the strands was, on its own, enough to send shivers down his spine, but if there had been a spider in the web—

In his panic, Frank stumbled into one of the large, cloth-draped objects in the room, stirring up an unpleasant musty smell and a thick cloud of dust. Before he could think to try and shield his face, Frank caught a mouthful, and then he could only cough and cough, struggling to clear his lungs while still trying to fling the last remnants of the spiderweb away. The state of panic he was in only served to make the coughing fit worse—he couldn’t think, couldn’t _breathe_.

There was a split second where he recognized the blackness that was rushing up to envelop his senses, but by then he was too far gone to keep it from claiming him.


	2. Part One

How long he lay insensible, Frank had no way of knowing. What brought him back to consciousness--or semi-consciousness, at least--was the sensation of being lifted by someone, one arm around his shoulders and another under his knees. The world spun alarmingly for a moment, and then he was pressed against something reassuringly solid, which he realized after another moment was someone's chest.

He tried to open his eyes, to see who it was, but at that moment the person holding him stood, causing everything to lurch dizzily once more. Frank let out a little moan and squeezed his eyes shut tight, reaching up to cling to his rescuer's neck even as he abandoned any attempt at seeing his face.

"Shh," said a voice, presumably that of the person holding him. "It's all right."

The voice was male and unfamiliar, higher than Michael's, or any of the servants Frank could remember speaking to, and oddly rough, as if from disuse.

Frank wanted to ask who he was, or try again to look at him, but the man was moving again, carrying Frank as he walked, and every step made Frank's head spin. It seemed much easier, on the whole, to turn his face into the man's chest (Frank could hear his heart beat, quick and strong, as though he were startled or afraid) and let the swimming darkness claim him once more.

* * *

When Frank woke again, he was in bed, blankets tucked around him and a cold compress laid across his brow. There were voices coming from somewhere close by, and Frank instinctively held himself still and kept his eyes closed, listening.

"--exactly the sort of thing I feared would happen." That was Schechter, speaking in a characteristically humorless tone. "If you recall, sir, I expressed my doubts about this from the beginning."

"You don't need to remind me of that, Brian," Michael replied softly.

"Very well, now that it has happened, what are we going to do about it?"

"You're going to go upstairs and make certain all the doors that should be locked are," Michael informed him. "And I'm going to talk to Frank when he wakes up. Why, did you have something else in mind?"

"Sir--" Schechter began in a lecturing tone, only to have Michael cut him off.

"What would you have me do, Brian? Put him in a coach back to London?"

"If you want my honest opinion, sir, that's _exactly_ what I'd have you do," Schechter replied flatly.

"We've talked about this," Michael said. "He came to me for help, and I'm going to give it to him as long as I can feasibly do so."

"And what will it take for you to admit it's no longer feasible?" Schechter pressed. "What if his curiosity doesn't stop here?"

Still lying with his eyes closed, Frank wondered briefly at those words. What was Schechter so concerned that curiosity might uncover?

"I'll do what I must, as always." Michael's voice was so low Frank had to strain to hear it, and his tone had a note of finality that Frank had heard before. "And as always, if I require your counsel on the matter, I'll seek it out."

There was a brief pause, and then Schechter replied, stiffly, "Very good, sir."

Footsteps, then, and the sound of a door shutting, and, after a moment, Michael let out a sigh. More footsteps, and the sound of a chair creaking as he sat down, and Frank squinted one eye open to see Michael sitting in a chair near the bedside, turned away from Frank and gazing out of the window with an unreadable expression on his face.

Feeling suddenly guilty for pretending to be still asleep, Frank stirred now, shifting on the mattress and blinking his eyes open. Michael turned to look down at him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Foolish, mainly," Frank replied, pushing himself into a sitting position. "I, er--I went up to the fourth floor."

"I know," Michael said dourly. "And then you fainted."

"I walked into a spiderweb," Frank went on, chagrined. "It startled me, and then I started coughing, and then...I suppose I did faint, didn't I."

Michael shook his head, smiling very faintly. "I told you not to go up there. You're just lucky someone found you before the spiders dragged you off."

Frank was perfectly aware that something like spiders dragging him off into the dark and devouring his entire body was in all likelihood impossible, and thus did _not_ go pale at the thought.

"Who was it who found me, by the way?" he asked instead.

"One of the servants," Michael replied. "Henry, I believe."

Frank couldn't remember for certain if there was a Henry or not, though he supposed there must be. "I thought you said the servants don't go up there often," he said, puzzled. “But someone must have, to find me—and there were footprints up there, as well.”

"They don't go up often," Michael agreed. "But you were up there past suppertime, and no one could find you anywhere else. As for the footprints, Schechter sent someone up a few days ago, to check for damage from the storm, remember?"

He was looking away again as he spoke, not meeting Frank's eyes, and if it were anyone else Frank might have wondered if they were being entirely honest. But the explanation made sense, and what reason could Michael have to not be honest with him?

Michael looked back at him after a moment, offering another small smile. "Anyway. Seeing as you missed supper, I think I'll go see if Betsy's willing to fix you something."

After he left, Frank let himself sink back against the pillows, brow furrowed. Now that he thought about it, he was certain there was a Henry among the servants. But he could have sworn--of course, his memory of being found up there was more than a little hazy--but he could have sworn that Henry had a much deeper voice than the one he had heard.

* * *

Whether or not Michael was upset with Frank for going upstairs, he didn't say anything further on the matter, at least not to Frank himself. He seemed to regard the fright Frank had received as both sufficient penalty for snooping about and a more powerful deterrent against further exploration than anything he could have said or done, and within a few days, it was very much as if the incident had never occurred.

As the days passed, Frank's stay at the manor settled into a routine that was comfortable, if not terribly exciting. He and Michael usually spent several hours of each day together; besides meals and tea, they took many walks on the grounds together when it was fair, and had also gone riding a few times. Growing up in the city as he had, Frank had never ridden much before; now, with constant access to horses and open country for the first time, he found the activity tiring, but enjoyable. If the weather precluded walking or riding, they found ways to amuse themselves inside the house, reading together or playing duets on the piano in the music room (they made interesting musical partners; Michael had been extensively tutored growing up but had less natural aptitude, whereas Frank had little formal training, but a talent for learning songs by ear). And when Michael was busy, sequestered in his study or seeing to various things about the house, Frank entertained himself, something he was well used to doing from all the times he had been too sick to go out.

There was an early cold snap in the last week of August, and Frank woke one morning with an aching head and a dry, scratchy throat. Being familiar with these warning signs, he dressed warmly, and spent the afternoon in the library rather than taking his usual walk in the garden. Preventative measures came too late, however, and by evening he was coughing and sniffling.

He was worse the next day, which he spent most of curled in a chair by the fireplace in his room, and on the third day he simply stayed in bed, alternately kicking the covers away went he felt too warm and huddling back into them when he felt chilled. Michael had his meals brought to him, but Frank managed to eat little besides a bit of porridge in the morning and some broth at suppertime.

Michael kept him company for several hours, reading aloud for a while. When Frank was seized with a particularly nasty coughing fit, Michael lowered the book to his lap, looking at his friend in concern.

"There's a good doctor in Thornton," he said. "If you're no better by tomorrow, I'll go and fetch him."

* * *

Frank was no better the next day—in fact, he was worse. Michael left for Thornton shortly after breakfast, insisting on going himself, and Frank stayed in bed again and slept a great deal, tossing and turning from fitful dreams.

He had no idea what time it was or how long Michael had been gone when he woke and groped for the water glass on his bedside table, only to find it empty. Frank tried to call out, hoping Schechter or one of the other servants might be close enough to hear, but only managed a weak croak and another short coughing fit.

He was groggy and nearly delirious, barely able his eyes keep his eyes open, but he pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed--or tried to, at least. His knees buckled the moment he stood up, and he pitched forward, flailing about for something to catch hold of.

He wasn't expecting the shoulder his hand landed on, or the arm that went around his waist, holding him up. Confused and a bit alarmed, he nonetheless clutched at the support gratefully.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," a voice said in his ear. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to be certain, but Frank thought he had heard that voice before.

"Who--?" he began, tilting his head up and trying to make his eyes open further. The room was dimly lit, and through the fringe of his lashes all Frank could make out was a blur of dark hair and pale skin.

Still holding Frank with one arm, the man put his other hand on his brow, pushing Frank's head down against his shoulder. Frank opened his mouth to protest, but his head was spinning, the hand on his brow was blessedly cool against his own feverish skin, and instead of protesting he closed his eyes and tried to breathe as deeply as he could without setting off another coughing fit.

The man moved after another moment, pushing Frank forward until his knees hit the bed, and Frank collapsed back onto the mattress with no resistance. He was dimly aware of the coverlet being drawn up to his shoulders, and then the hand was on his forehead again, smoothing sweat-damp hair away from his face.

"Michael will be back soon," the dry, scratchy voice said. "Just rest."

"Who are you?" Frank asked. His own voice was rough and weak, but at least he managed the complete sentence this time.

"Shh," was the only response, low and soothing. The hand was still against his hair, stroking gently. "Go back to sleep."

* * *

When Frank woke again, it was to find an elderly man he had never seen before bending over him; he blinked a few times, startled, before he noticed the stethoscope the man held and realized he must be the doctor from Thornton.

The doctor made Frank breathe deeply while he listened to his lungs, questioned him about how long fevers such as this had lasted in the past, and spoke with Michael about what had been done for Frank already. He left a tincture of laudenum to ease Frank’s cough and help him sleep, and instructions for Michael to keep Frank warm, see that he took some more broth when he felt able, and send word if the fever hadn’t broken in another day or so.

The laudenum helped, though it gave Frank strange dreams of hurrying through long, dark hallways and empty rooms, trying to glimpse the face of a man who was always ahead of him, back turned, just far enough away that Frank was unable to overtake him. But strange dreams were preferable to waking himself with wracking coughs over and over, and the fever must have broken some time that night, for he woke feeling much cooler and clearer-headed.

"Feeling better, I hope?" Michael asked, when he stopped by Frank's room to find him sitting up in bed with a tray on his lap.

"Yes, much," Frank replied. He still had little appetite, but had done well enough with the broth and toast Hannah had brought him. He finished the last of his meal and lifted the tray to set it aside, but it wobbled in his grip and might have crashed to the floor if Michael hadn't stepped forward quickly to take it. Frank let go with a contrite look and settled back against his pillows, mentally admonishing himself to not tax his strength while he was still recovering.

"Something strange happened while you were gone," he said as Michael was setting the tray down on a table by the window. "I would think it must have been a dream, only it seems too real for that."

Michael paused where he stood for a moment, then let go of the tray and turned, his face smooth and blank. "Oh? What sort of something?"

Frank watched his friend's expression carefully, considering his next words. Privately, he was quite certain the experience had not been a dream, certain that there had been someone in his room who had not been any of the servants he had seen or spoken to in his several weeks at the manor. But if he confronted Michael with that certainty, put him in the position of confirming or denying it outright...he wasn't sure what that would mean. It seemed better to be delicate.

"Well, as I said, it seems like a dream now--but I could have sworn that I woke up, and there was someone in my room. Not you or the doctor or any of the servants, I mean, someone else."

Someone who knew Michael less well, who was less experienced at trying to decipher his thoughts and emotions with minimal clues, might have missed the way his shoulders tightened. Frank did not.

"Are you quite sure it wasn't Brian?" Michael asked. "I asked him to look in on you while I was gone, see if you needed anything--"

Frank shook his head. "He spoke to me, and it wasn't Sch--wasn't Brian's voice. It didn't sound like any of the servants."

Michael raised one eyebrow slightly. Beyond that, his face was smooth and blank, revealing nothing. "It must have been a dream after all, then."

"I suppose," Frank replied. "It did seem very real, but if it wasn't one of the servants, there's no one else it could have been, is there?"

"No," Michael replied smoothly, his expression unchanging. "There isn't." He turned back to the table, lifting the tray again and stepping toward the door. "You should rest."

Frank did lie down again after Michael left, but rest was far from his mind. If this had been an isolated incident, he might have convinced himself that it had been a dream--he was no stranger to vivid fever dreams, after all--but it was far from isolated.

The man in his room, the footprints in the dust and being found and carried downstairs when he had swooned, the conversation he had overheard between Michael and Schechter after that, the strange noises on the night of the storm and the feeling of being watched...even thinking that he'd seen something in the attic window the night of his arrival. Any one of them might have been explained away, two or three of them together may have been coincidence, but together they pointed towards a conclusion that was inescapable even as it strained belief.

There was someone else in the house, someone whose presence had been concealed from him. And, short of confronting Michael directly, it seemed there was only one way for Frank to discover who, and why.

* * *

His course of action was resolved, but Frank found it necessary to wait several days before enacting his plan. His health continued to improve, but a midnight excursion into the attic, possibly facing danger (or at the very least, surprise), seemed unwise to attempt until the fever was well and truly behind him.

During this waiting period, he consulted his conscience, and found it largely untroubled by what he was planning to do. Certainly, it was snooping. Certainly, Michael had the right to be private and keep things to himself. But a stranger had been in his room while he was delirious and defenseless, and as far as Frank was concerned, he had a right to know who that person was.

A few days later, he felt well enough for what he meant to do. He went to bed at his usual hour that night, but lay awake, listening as the rest of the household settled down for the night. He could hear Michael moving about in his study down the hall, and he seemed to stay there a long while. When Frank finally heard his friend cross the hall and shut the door to his bedroom, he glanced at the clock on his mantle and saw that of course it hadn't been nearly so long as it seemed. But Frank hated to wait for anything, and right now, eager to be off on his late-night expedition, every minute seemed like an hour.

In spite of his impatience, Frank allowed a good amount of time for Michael to fall asleep before he rose. He donned his warmest dressing gown and slippers, and took the lamp from his bedside table, but did not light it yet.

His bedroom door opened with no creak, thankfully, and he crept out into the hallway as quietly as he could. Michael's bedroom door was shut securely, no light showing in the gap by the floor, and Frank stole across to the staircase quickly, avoiding a board he knew creaked when trodden on. He climbed the stairs in the dark, gripping the banister and feeling cautiously ahead with his feet, and only lit his lamp once he was on the fourth floor.

The door at the end of the hallway was shut, and Frank held his breath as he approached and grasped the handle--but it turned easily in his grip, unlocked. He stepped back into the room where he had walked into the spiderweb last time, holding his lamp up carefully to make sure he wouldn't repeat the experience now. The room looked much the same as it had last time, with the exception that the door at the other end was also closed now. It also proved unlocked, however, and Frank opened it to find himself confronted with a narrow wooden staircase.

The staircase was long, and Frank climbed until, looking over his shoulder, he could barely see the door at the bottom. Finally, he emerged into a wide room with a low ceiling. It was very dark--there were a few windows, but they were shuttered, admitting only a few scant moonbeams--but by holding his lamp high, Frank was able to make out at least some of the room's contents, and his heart began to beat faster as he looked at them.

There was a bed tucked against the wall beneath one of the windows, brass frame gleaming dully in the light of the lamp, covers a careless tangle. There was a desk, its surface barely visible under a mound of clutter, a threadbare antique loveseat, a chest of drawers and a few other pieces of furniture, scattered throughout the space at random. In one corner, there was a canvas set up on an easel, covered with a sheet, a table with paints and brushes laid out on it, and other canvases leaning against the wall. The rest of the room was in disarray, books and papers and articles of clothing strewn across the floor, but that corner was clean and neat, a wide, comfortable space for an artist to work in.

Frank walked forward to the desk, looking down at the mess that covered it. Among books left carelessly open and face-down and papers covered in an untidy scrawl, there were several drawings in a hand that seemed familiar. Frank picked one up; it was of a young man sitting in an arbor, a book held in one hand. The subject's face was hidden from view, but Frank remembered the odd feeling he'd had of being watched as he sat in the garden and felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Another drawing, partially covered by other papers, caught his eye, and as he drew it out to look at it, Frank's heart gave a sudden lurch--it was undoubtedly a study of his own sleeping face.

While he was still staring at the drawing, there was a noise behind him, and he whirled around. There was someone standing by a door at one end of the room, and Frank jumped, startled, but as soon as the light from Frank's lamp touched him, the man flinched back, one hand thrown up to shield his face. His other hand groped for the door he'd just come through, and it only took Frank a moment to realize that he was panicked, on the verge of flight.

"Wait," he said aloud, putting one hand in front of his lamp to make its light less harsh. "Wait, please. I didn't mean to startle you."

The man stayed as he was for a moment, pressed against the wall and breathing heavily, and then, slowly, he lowered the hand from his face and looked at Frank. His pale green eyes were huge, set in his round, white face, and his dark hair hung in stringy, untidy waves to his shoulders.

Frank recognized him. He hadn't been expecting to, hadn't thought to connect the one mystery to the other, but as he looked at the man standing across the room and realized where he'd seen that face before, the pieces fell into place.

_I suppose he told you that Gerard just disappeared? Ran off in the night?...That’s one way to explain a man vanishing without a trace, but if you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, there are others._

"You--you're Gerard, aren't you?" Frank breathed. "Michael's brother."

The man stared at Frank as though he were a ghost, or some sort of animal that was likely to attack if provoked. "Yes," he said finally, in a rusty croak of a voice that Frank knew he had heard before.

"I'm Frank," he said after a moment, not sure what else to say.

Gerard nodded. "I know who you are."

They stood there, facing each other across a short distance. Frank's heart was pounding in his chest, but with adrenaline, not fear. It was difficult to be afraid of someone who was so plainly terrified of him.

"Michael told me you were gone," Frank said at length. "What are you doing up here?"

"I live up here," Gerard replied. "I have since our grandmother died." He paused, then added, in a lower voice, "Michael doesn't tell anyone I'm here."

"Why not?" Frank asked, brow furrowed.

"I don't like people," Gerard told him matter-of-factly. "I don't like talking to them, or the way they look at me. I like staying here, where I can read and paint and no one bothers me. But if they knew I was here, they'd ask all sorts of questions and want to know why, or try to come up here or make me come down. It's better if they don't know."

Frank bit his lip in consternation at those words--he had asked too many questions and been too curious, he had come snooping up here and invaded Gerard's sanctuary--and he asked, "Do...do you want me to go away? I won't trouble you again, if--"

"No," Gerard said quickly. He took a few steps forward, staring at Frank in a manner that was a bit disquieting. "No, it's all right. You're Michael's friend."

He said it as though it were the highest character reference Frank could produce, and Frank smiled for a moment, until he remembered the drawings he'd seen on the desk. "You've been watching me since I came here, haven't you? You carried me downstairs when I fainted, and you were in my room when I was sick."

"Yes," Gerard answered softly. "Michael told me I should leave you alone, but it was so different, having someone new in the house."

It had been, and still was, unsettling to think of being watched by someone unknown, even in the privacy of his bedroom, even as he slept. Gerard himself was unsettling, skin too pale, eyes too large and intent and unblinking, still looking as though he wasn't quite sure what manner of creature Frank was. And yet for all that, there was a kind of awkward sweetness to him that impressed Frank immediately. It was in his tone when he mentioned Michael, as if his younger brother had hung the moon and stars. It was in the way he spoke so frankly and candidly in spite of his strange appearance. It was in the way that, for someone who the gossips of Thornton had described as a potentially dangerous madman, he seemed timid and unprepossessing, unlikely to strike out except perhaps in self-defense.

"Well," Frank said at last, "if you don't mind my coming up here to find you, I don't mind you watching me. There was no harm done in either case, was there?"

He offered another smile, and this time, Gerard answered with a smile of his own. The expression transformed his face, making it almost cherubic--that is, if one could imagine a cherub with unhealthy pallor and slouched shoulders and hair that looked as though it hadn't been washed in at least a week.

"And in any case," Frank went on, "now that I know you're here, there's no need for all the secrecy any longer. I suppose Michael will be relieved at that, even if he's cross with me for--"

The smile dropped from Gerard's face in an instant, and in another he was right beside Frank, reaching out to grasp his arm urgently.

"You can't tell him," he said, low and fierce. He was so close Frank could feel Gerard's breath on his face, and his hold on Frank's arm was so tight it was painful. "Michael didn't want you to know about me--he'd be angry--he might forbid me to see you, or even send you away. You can't--"

"All right," Frank broke in gently. Slowly, and a bit cautiously, he laid one hand over Gerard's, trying to loosen his grip. "It's all right, I won't tell him."

He would have said it regardless, to calm Gerard, but he too felt a surge of panic at the thought of being sent away. The conversation he'd overheard echoed through his mind--Schechter would have seen him sent away already, and perhaps this would be what it took to make Michael agree with him.

In some ways, it might have been a relief--the idea of leaving this gloomy house full of shadows and secrets, turning his back on everything that had caused him to doubt Michael's honesty or engage in dishonesty himself. But as strange as the manor was, and as strange as Frank's stay there had been, he had grown attached to it. And the thought of never seeing Gerard again when they had just met properly, when Frank wanted to know so much more about him...

"Do you promise?" Gerard asked almost suspiciously, eyes locked on Frank's.

"I promise," Frank said, meeting Gerard's eyes and committing himself without any further hesitation. As he did, Gerard's fingers loosened. All the sudden fierceness seemed to slip away as quickly as it had appeared, and he seemed to recall himself rather suddenly, taking a step back and putting his hands behind his back.

"If I startled you just now, I apologize," he said, eyes downcast. "Sometimes I forget myself."

"It's all right," Frank said again. He had been startled, but there was no harm done, and Gerard's apology seemed sincere.

Gerard darted a look at Frank through the lank hair that fell across his eyes, but said nothing, and once again they were facing one another in heavy silence.

"I should go," Frank said at last. "If Michael isn't to know about this, then I'll have to be careful."

"Yes," Gerard agreed, still looking down. "Yes, of course."

"...But if I am careful, may I come up here and speak to you again?" Frank finished, and Gerard looked up quickly, first with a look of faint surprise, and then another sweet smile.

"If you wish," he said. "I--I'd like that, I think."

"Then it's settled," Frank said, and held out a hand, which Gerard took. He was far more gentle than when he had grabbed Frank's arm earlier, seeming almost afraid to touch him now. They shook hands, and then it was Frank's turn to move back, heading for the stairs.

"I'll see you soon, then," he said before he started down, glancing over his shoulder. "Goodnight, Gerard."

Gerard nodded, traces of a smile still lingering on his face. "Goodnight, Frank."

* * *

Frank slept later than usual the next day, and was quiet and subdued when he finally emerged from his room, but no one questioned his behavior. Michael merely asked if he felt well, seeming concerned that Frank's health might have relapsed. Frank reassured him with an easy smile and then lapsed back into silence, bent over a book but paying little attention to the words on the page, darting occasional furtive glances at his friend.

Pretending he hadn't found out about Gerard, engaging in outright deceit, troubled Frank more than sneaking up to the attic had. It seemed as though the knowledge that Michael had been deceiving him for months ought to make him feel less guilty, but that, too, was troubling. Had Michael thought that Frank wouldn't understand Gerard's reclusive nature, or feared he might reveal Gerard's presence to others? Did he really trust Frank so little? Frank wished that he could simply bring everything out into the open--confess his own actions and question Michael about his--but the potential threat of being sent away still weighed heavily on his mind, and he held his tongue.

"Oh, I meant to tell you," Michael said after a few minutes, jolting Frank out of his guilty thoughts. "I have to go to London on business at the end of the month, and I thought if you liked, we could make a trip of it and stay a day or two."

"That would be nice." Still distracted, Frank gave the response automatically, but it would be nice, he decided after a moment, to be back where everything was familiar and comfortable for a while.

Michael nodded, eyes already turned back to the book he'd been reading. "Very well. I'll make the arrangements."

* * *

Frank took a nap in the afternoon, having gotten little sleep the night before and not expecting to get much more that night, and awoke feeling a little more resolved, a little more prepared to smile and pretend that nothing was wrong. He and Michael had a very pleasant dinner together, and retired to the music room for a while afterward. Seated at the piano, Frank found himself wondering if Gerard could hear them, if the music would carry as far as the attic or if he might be down on the third floor, listening.

After retiring, Frank waited as he had the night before. All was quiet in the house when he finally opened his door, but he immediately saw that there was a light still on in Michael's room. Frank froze for a moment, then drew back. He pushed his door closed until it was just slightly ajar, and waited, trying not to make a sound.

Minutes passed by with agonizing slowness, and the light still shone through the edges of the door frame. Frank leaned against the wall when his legs grew stiff from standing still, looking anxiously between Michael's door and the staircase.

The light went out at last, and Frank waited a few minutes longer before stealing across to the staircase. He had his lamp in one hand, but, as before, kept it unlit for the moment. He was rounding the third floor landing, preparing to light his lamp, when he crashed headlong into Gerard.

Frank stumbled backwards, toward the stairs, and Gerard grabbed his shoulders to steady him. At almost the same moment, Gerard opened his mouth, as if to let out a surprised exclamation, and Frank reached up to cover his mouth with one hand, and they stood like that, pressed against each other. Frank was still holding the lamp, his hand wedged uncomfortably between his and Gerard's chests, and he could feel Gerard's heart pounding against the back of his arm.

After a moment, Frank took his hand away from Gerard's mouth, and Gerard released Frank a bit more slowly.

"I was afraid you might not be coming," Gerard said in a low voice. "I came down to see if anything was wrong."

"Michael's light was still on," Frank replied. "I had to wait for him to go to sleep."

Gerard nodded. "He's asleep now. I checked."

"--Checked?" Frank echoed in puzzlement as he lit the lamp. "How?"

For a moment, Gerard looked uncertain. Then he beckoned. "I'll show you."

Frank followed him down the hall to a closed door, waiting while Gerard produced a key from his pocket and then led him through. The room they entered was empty but for a small Persian run on the floor, once-bold colors faded with age and dust.

Gerard knelt on the floor and beckoned Frank to do the same, flipping back the rug to reveal a dust-free rectangle on the floor. Within the space was a spot that looked like a knothole in the floorboards, but when Frank looked closer, he saw that the original hole had been widened with some sharp instrument.

He glanced at Gerard, who nodded, telling him, "Look."

Frank bent forward until his face was almost against the floor, peering through the small hole. He could just barely make out a few shapes in the room below--a desk, a dresser, a bed--but it was enough for him to realize what room they were above.

"Is that--Michael's bedroom?" he asked.

"Yes," Gerard replied. "I have a few places like this in the house."

It explained how he was able to watch what went on inside the house without leaving the upper stories, Frank thought. A moment later, he straightened up, looking uncertainly at Gerard. "Where else do you have them?"

"Above the library, the parlor, the kitchen, and Michael's study," Gerard said. "No other bedrooms besides his."

Frank relaxed at hearing that. The idea of Gerard watching him in his bedroom gave him a feeling in his gut that was strange, but not entirely unpleasant, and it was easier to push the thought aside than consider what it meant.

Gerard rolled the rug back into place and stood. "Come on. Let's go upstairs."

Instead of going up the main stair, Gerard led Frank through a door at the end of the hall, which he opened with the same key, to a cramped, narrow staircase. Frank was able to see the way with his lamp, but if Gerard had come down this way, he must have been in total darkness. But then, having spent his entire life in the house, Frank supposed he might not need a light to find his way around.

There were lights in Gerard's bedroom, when they reached it, but they were candles placed randomly around the room with no holders, which unsettled Frank more than the darkness of the staircase had.

"It's been a long time since anyone else came up here, except for Michael," Gerard told him, sounding shy.

"Don't you get tired of being up here all by yourself?" Frank asked.

"It's not that bad," Gerard said. "Michael visits often, so I'm not alone so very much."

"Yes, I suppose this is where he disappears to so often," Frank mused, then added, brow furrowed, "I've never noticed him going up farther than the second floor, though."

"He doesn't use the main stair," Gerard explained. "There's one in his study, behind the bookcase, and he usually just comes up that way."

"Michael has a hidden staircase in his study?" Frank asked, and then shook his head with a faint smile. "Of course he does, this is exactly the sort of house where one finds hidden stairs behind bookcases. But--don't you ever wish for more company than just him?"

Gerard shrugged lightly. "He has visitors so rarely that for the most part it's just him and the servants, and I've always liked watching them better than talking to them. And I don't mind the lack of other company much--I have my paintings, and my books."

"Books," Frank echoed, as a thought occurred to him. "You said you have a spot where you watch the library? And Michael's study?"

"Yes," Gerard replied.

"It was you who left those books out for me to find, wasn't it?" Frank went on. That was why Michael had seemed surprised when he found Frank with them.

Gerard nodded, with a slight smile. "Yes. Did you like them?"

"Very much," Frank said. "But I shouldn't like to keep them too long, if you'd like any of them back. I've finished _The Monk_ and _Udolpho_."

"What are you reading right now?" Gerard asked.

" _The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne_ ," Frank said, and Gerard's smile grew.

"That's one of my favorites," he said. "How far along are you?"

"Osbert's still imprisoned at Dunbayne," Frank told him. "And Malcolm demanded Mary's hand as his ransom."

"Oh, that part's _horrible_ ," Gerard said in a delighted tone. "So Osbert hasn't learned who the ladies in the castle are yet, has he?"

Frank shook his head. "No. But I have an idea who they might be."

He looked over at Gerard, hoping he might give some hint, but Gerard only smiled. "Keep reading."

Frank smiled. "All right, I will. But I'll bring you back the ones I've finished."

As he glanced around the room, his eyes landing on the easel and the canvases stacked in the corner, and he remembered something else.

"There was a drawing tucked inside in one of the books," he said. "Did you leave it there for me to find?"

Gerard nodded. "Michael brought it back to me after you showed it to him," he said, adding, shyly, "You can have it back if you like. I drew it for you."

"Really?" Frank felt a bit flustered, though pleased; he hadn't thought that Gerard might have drawn something specifically for him, rather than simply choosing an existing picture to give him. "I've never had an artist draw something for me before."

Gerard gave a nervous laugh, color tinging his pale cheeks. "Oh, it's not as though I'm a _real_ artist."

"Why not?" Frank asked. "You paint, don't you?"

"Well, yes, but I've never really shown my paintings to anyone, or anything like that. It's just...what I like to do."

Frank hesitated, then asked, "...Would you show them to me? You needn't if you don't want to, of course, but I've been curious about them since Michael told me you painted."

Gerard looked at Frank uncertainly, biting his lip, and said nothing for a long moment. Frank was certain that when he did speak, it would be a refusal, but then Gerard simply nodded and moved toward the corner where the easel stood, beckoning for Frank to follow. Instead of showing Frank any of the canvases stacked against the wall there, he opened a small door Frank hadn't noticed before, so low that they both had to stoop to go through it.

The room they entered was small, and seemed even more cramped and tiny because of how full it was. There were canvases stacked on every side, piled nearly to the ceiling in some places. Frank couldn't help but gape, while Gerard started sifting through some of the smaller piles, muttering to himself as he pulled some canvases out and left others where they were.

"Would you like any help?" Frank asked after a moment, watching Gerard try to lift too many canvases at one time and nearly lose his grip on them.

"No," Gerard answered quickly, and a little sharply. A moment later, he cast an apologetic glance over his shoulder, and said in a gentler tone, "I don't like for anyone else to touch them, you understand. I can manage."

Frank couldn't see what damage he might do to any of the paintings that wasn't just as likely to be done by Gerard trying to handle them all on his own, but he merely nodded, and placed his hands behind his back, as if to show that he wasn't going to try and touch anything while Gerard wasn't looking. Eventually, Gerard managed to select four canvases and line them up against the stacks, keeping them turned around so that Frank couldn't see them.

"All right," he said, and beckoned to Frank, who moved forward to stand beside Gerard as he turned the canvases around, one by one.

There was a landscape, seemingly the same view as the drawing he had given Frank, a closer study of a group of trees that Frank thought might be one of the orchards on the grounds, and two portraits. Frank instantly recognized Michael in one, his face in profile as he sat looking out a window, and thought the elderly woman in the other might be Helena, based on the other pictures he had seen of her.

The paintings were all impressive--even knowing as little as he did about art, Frank could tell that both talent and dedication had gone into their creation--but there was an oddness to them as well, the angles slightly askew, the play of light and shadow strange in a way Frank had difficulty finding words for. They looked, he decided after a moment, a bit like something out of a fever dream; so vivid they seemed almost alive, but with a subtle sense of wrongness that gave the lie to their illusion of reality.

They may not have appealed to all tastes, may not have brought Gerard any success or acclaim as a painter if he had sought it. But Frank had a fondness for strange things, and the paintings intrigued him, made him think that if he studied them long enough, he could understand how Gerard saw the world.

Absorbed as he was in looking at the paintings, it took Frank a few moments to realize that Gerard was looking at him just as intently, watching him with an air of nervous expectation.

"Gerard, these are wonderful," Frank said, and Gerard flushed again, smiling.

"Do you like them?" he asked. "Truly?"

"Truly," Frank told him sincerely. "Thank you for showing them to me."

As Gerard replaced the paintings, Frank looked around at all the other canvases stacked about the room. Years and years of work, paintings perhaps even better than the four Gerard had shown him, crowded into a tiny attic room where no one could see them. It was no one's concern but Gerard's what he did with his own works, of course, but Frank couldn't help thinking that it was a shame for them to be hidden so.

* * *

Over the course of the next month, Frank visited Gerard in the attic on an almost nightly basis, and their friendship deepened quickly. Unused to any company besides Michael, Gerard latched onto Frank eagerly, and entirely aside from his fascination with Gerard, Frank continued to be touched by his earnestness and friendliness. And as he grew more used to sneaking back and forth through the house at night, he grew more comfortable continuing the deception that had originally troubled him. It even added excitement to the time he spent with Gerard, giving it the feeling of an illicit pleasure.

Most of their time together was spent in conversation. Gerard seemed to find the idea of life in a city like London both exciting and somewhat frightening--so many people packed so close together--and he pressed Frank for information about it, asking if he'd seen this play or been to that historic building Gerard had read about. In exchange, he talked about his and Michael's youth, though there were things that Gerard was as reluctant to discuss as his brother, his parents' and grandmother's death chief among them.

Gerard was an interesting study in contrasts, Frank was learning. He had a thoughtful nature, and his conversation hinted at an intelligence that was considerable. And yet it seemed that he had never applied himself to anything other than his extensive reading and painting. As the older brother, he was the rightful heir to his father's title (Frank knew now why Michael had always been so reluctant to name himself as Lord Way), but he had gladly left the running of the household to his grandmother, before her death, and to Michael afterward. Avoiding the responsibilities of adulthood, he seemed to interact with the world on a level that was more like that of a boy than a man; what was pleasant was to be sought after and indulged in, and what was unpleasant or painful was to be put aside, hidden from, or simply ignored.

One thing Frank learned quickly was that Gerard had little concern for normal social boundaries, and the way he behaved around Frank seemed to have little to do with anything besides his own whims. At times, he would withdraw into himself, keeping his distance, while at others he had no compunctions about standing very close to Frank, touching his shoulder to get his attention or grabbing his hand for emphasis in a conversation.

One night found them particularly close together, side by side on Gerard's threadbare loveseat. Rather than wait until he had finished _The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne_ to return it to Gerard, Frank had brought the book to the attic with him and proposed that they read together. Gerard had read the novel many times before, but was fond enough of it to do so again gladly, and Frank found it very pleasant to listen to him read aloud, his dry, scratchy voice capturing all the passion and drama of the story.

They were nearing the end of the novel by now; the villainous Baron had been defeated, his crimes punished and his prisoners freed. But no resolution had yet been reached for Mary and Alleyn, the Earl's beautiful sister and the heroic young man who had won her heart in spite of his low birth. Each had acknowledged their own feelings and discovered proof of the other's, and yet the fact that Alleyn was a commoner was still viewed as an insurmountable obstacle to their love.

"It's so _frustrating_ ," Frank broke in when Gerard finished a chapter. "I don't see why they're still letting it hold them back."

Gerard glanced at him. "You don't think their difference in station should matter?"

Frank shrugged. "I can see how it would give them pause, at first. But if they truly love one another, and they _know_ that, then they should act on their feelings, no matter what's in the way."

"I think you're right," Gerard replied softly.

Their eyes met, and Frank only realized then how close they had gotten, leaning over the book as they sat next to one another. He shifted awkwardly, putting a bit more distance between them and dropping his eyes back to the page. "Well. I'm sorry for interrupting; would you like to read a little more?"

"We're at a fairly good place to stop for the night, actually," Gerard told him. "If I read much more I doubt you'll want to stop before the end, trust me. And it's getting late."

"It is," Frank agreed. Absorbed in the story, he hadn't realized how tired he was getting. "Shall we read the rest tomorrow night, then?"

Gerard nodded and set the book aside, and Frank stood, pacing away from the loveseat a little. The main room of the attic was spacious enough, but the ceiling was low and the floor was cluttered with objects, and it suddenly seemed crowded and stifling.

"Don't you ever want to go outside?" he asked suddenly. "I know you don't like being around people, but it seems like you could go out at night without anyone noticing, if you wanted."

"I suppose," Gerard said, a bit dubiously. "But...I don't know, I've never felt much of an urge to."

"I just can't imagine spending all my time indoors," Frank said. "Especially out in the country like this--I feel as though I could go run about on the moors all day, if I had the energy."

Gerard smiled, rising from the loveseat and walking over towards his bed and the wide casement window above it. "You're more adventurous than I. All I need is to _see_ the moors, and I can do that just as well from here."

He clambered up onto the bed like a boy, kneeling on the mattress and reaching up to fling back the shutters, then turned and held out a hand to Frank, beckoning.

"There's a full moon tonight," he said, his smile widening. "Come and see."

Frank hesitated at the idea of climbing onto Gerard's bed, but Gerard beckoned again, insistently, and Frank shrugged and went to join him. Gerard grabbed his hand eagerly, pulling him close.

"See?" he whispered, lips almost touching Frank's ear.

The moon was not only full, but enormous, starkly white against the inky blackness of the clear night sky around it. It glowed brightly, setting the countryside below awash in pale light.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Gerard whispered, and his breath tickled Frank's ear and made him shiver even as Frank breathed a "Yes," in reply.

Gerard looked over at him, brow furrowing. "You're cold."

"I'm all right," Frank murmured, looking down.

Gerard shook his head. "No, you'll get sick again if you aren't careful--here--"

Ignoring Frank's weak protests, Gerard reached down and retrieved a blanket from the tangled mass of bedclothes at the foot of the bed, shook it out a bit, and then tossed it about Frank's shoulders, wrapping it around him securely.

"There," he said with an air of satisfaction. "That's better, isn't it?"

Frank couldn't help but laugh. He fumbled around until he found the blanket's edges, and, before Gerard could protest, threw it around him as well. Gerard was caught off guard and Frank lost his balance, and they ended up tumbling down onto the bed together, both of them laughing now.

" _There_ ," Frank said. "Now you won't get cold, either. It's your blanket, after all."

Frank realized that their current position was somewhere between absurd and completely improper--two grown men huddling under a blanket together, both of them giggling like children. But he was too caught up in the moment to worry about propriety, and he didn't feel absurd--he felt good, being close to Gerard, making him laugh.

"Michael and I used to do this," Gerard whispered. "Whenever one of us had bad dreams, we'd climb into the other's bed and talk until we could go back to sleep."

"It sounds nice," Frank replied, a bit wistfully. He'd never had a brother; once he'd grown too big to crawl into bed with his parents, he'd only had himself to turn to for comfort from bad dreams.

"I had them more often, but Michael never minded," Gerard told him. "It was worse after our parents died--I would dream about the accident, even though I didn't see it, or about someone else dying--"

He broke off suddenly, looking stricken. And Frank could imagine why. If Gerard had suffered nightmares about another loved one dying, it could only have been Michael or Helena, the latter of whom he had lost in reality, and not just his dreams.

Frank reached out, putting his hand on Gerard's where it rested on the bed between them. Gerard turned his hand over instantly, gripping Frank's tightly, and looked across at him, his eyes wide and pale in the moonlight.

"Frank," he said softly, barely more than his lips shaping the name. "What do you think dying feels like?"

Frank wasn't as taken aback by the question as he might have been--Gerard had been talking about death already, after all. He thought for a moment, then asked, "Have you ever swooned?"

Gerard nodded, and Frank went on. "I think it feels like that. Only...deeper, and blacker. _More_."

"Perhaps," Gerard said. "...Have you ever swooned and wondered if you were dying?"

Frank nodded. "Only when I was very young."

Gerard looked at their joined hands, tracing his thumb lightly across Frank's wrist. "I feel...something, right now. Not like dying, I don't think, except it's big in the same way dying might be. And I can feel it in places you don't usually feel what's inside you, like my toes and my fingertips."

Gerard said things like that sometimes, things about what he was thinking or feeling but having difficulty putting into words. Sometimes he ended up making little sense to Frank, who would simply listen and nod sympathetically now and then, sensing that Gerard was talking more to himself than to Frank.

Frank wasn't sure what Gerard was talking about now, wasn't sure what the feeling he was describing might be. He wasn't sure how he himself felt, lying across from Gerard like this. He wished Gerard would stop touching his wrist that way, because it was distracting, and yet he didn't want him to stop. He wanted to pull away and go back to his own bedroom and pretend that nothing awkward or improper had happened tonight, and he wanted to move in closer and roll them both up in the soft, musty-smelling blanket and fall asleep with his head on Gerard's shoulder. All the confusion he felt when he was near Gerard was twisting in his belly, but he was tired and the bed was soft and there was a sense of languor sweeping through him, tempting him to simply push everything aside for now.

"I feel warm," Frank mumbled at length, sleepily. "And tired. I should go back down and go to bed, I suppose, but I don't want to get up."

"Then don't," Gerard replied softly, his eyes already slipping closed. "Stay with me."

* * *

Frank woke to watery gray light and Gerard shaking his shoulder, saying his name urgently. They'd shifted closer together as the night had gotten colder, and Frank was chilled all along one side and warm all along the other, his arm wedged uncomfortably between their torsos and his thigh pressed against Gerard's hip.

Frank's first impulse was to snuggle even closer to Gerard and go back to sleep. His second and far more sensible impulse was to move away at once. His third impulse, and the wisest yet, was to wonder why the room had gotten brighter, because surely the moon couldn't still be out.

"Oh!" he exclaimed as the obvious explanation hit him, sitting up and flinging off the blanket. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," Gerard hissed in reply, rubbing his eyes blearily. "The sun isn't up yet."

Cursing under his breath, Frank scrambled out of bed. "I need to go."

"Yes," Gerard agreed. Then, "Frank--"

Frank turned to see Gerard kneeling on the bed, hair sticking up in all directions, lower lip caught between his teeth. He looked as though he'd been about to say something further, and then stopped himself.

"What is it?" Frank asked gently.

Gerard shook his head. "Never mind. Go."

Frank hurried back down the stairs with his heart pounding in his ears, certain that he would make too much noise and be caught, or reach his room only to find that Michael or Schechter had come to look in on him in the night and discovered his absence already. He made it there safely undiscovered, however, and flung himself into bed, burrowing under the covers and curling onto his side. Anyone who came into the room now would think him still asleep, and have no reason to suppose he hadn't been there all night, but he was miles from sleep now, adrenaline still surging through him.

Adrenaline, and other things. Frank lay there, trying to catch his breath, and thought back to the night before. He had slept in Gerard's bed, as deeply and comfortably as if it had been his own, and it had seemed the easiest and most natural thing in the world to fall asleep there. Gerard hadn't seemed to find it at all strange--there had only been concern for Frank's not being found there in the attic, no surprise or offense at his having presumed to fall asleep there in the first place. He had mentioned sharing a bed with Michael as a child; perhaps he had come to view Frank in the same light as his brother.

Frank thought of waking pressed against Gerard, of lying across from him as they’d talked, holding his hand and looking into his eyes, and felt a sudden flush race over his entire body. Gerard's feelings toward him may be brotherly, but Frank could no longer say the same of his feelings for Gerard. And then, he thought, there had been the moment just before he left, when Gerard had seemed as though he wanted to say something...and there was what he had said last night, about feeling something overwhelming but difficult to put a name to. Was it possible...?

Frank turned his burning face into his pillow, drawing in a deep breath, and wondered what he should do.


	3. A World So Small: Part Three

A few hours later, giving up on falling back asleep, Frank rose and went downstairs a little earlier than usual, arriving in the breakfast room while Michael was still in bed. When his friend joined him there, Frank was bleary-eyed and lost in his own thoughts, a combination that made for poor conversation. At some point, he realized that Michael had asked him a question he'd only half-heard, and he turned, blinking.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" he asked sheepishly.

Michael looked at him, frowning slightly. "Are you all right? You seem tired, did you not sleep well?"

"I was up reading later than I should have been," Frank replied. It was the perfect truth, with only the omission of the fact that he had been reading with Gerard, but the deception suddenly seemed to weigh more heavily on him, no doubt because he had more to feel conflicted over now. Even those words recalled vivid memories of sitting so close to Gerard, glancing up at his face now and then while he had stayed intent on the book, and Frank felt warmth creeping into his face and prayed it wouldn't show.

Michael merely shrugged, turning the majority his attention back to his breakfast. "Well, in any case, I was asking if your parents ever wrote back about us dining with them in London tomorrow?"

"--Oh." The trip to London had entirely left Frank's mind; he had written to his parents and received their reply, but then he had gotten so caught up with Gerard that he'd barely noticed the dates they'd arranged approaching. "Yes--yes, they said they'll be expecting us."

"All right." Michael gave a satisfied nod. "It'll be good to see them."

"It will," Frank agreed, but he was distracted, already thinking about Gerard again. This was good, he told himself--it would be a relief not to see him for a few days, to have a chance to try and sort out his thoughts and feelings. And yet, he was unsurprised to find himself facing the prospect of even a brief separation with a feeling that was far from relief.

* * *

By nightfall, Frank was no less conflicted. He had never been in a position like this before, and had no idea what, if anything, he should do about it. The thought of going on as they had, speaking to Gerard and smiling at him and sitting beside him as though nothing had changed, seemed like dishonesty, but confessing his feelings could be disastrous, could mean he would never have the chance to sit beside Gerard and smile at him again.

In the course of his musings, however, he had been struck with an idea regarding something else. He wasn't sure if it was a _good_ idea, or if Gerard would react at all well to it, but it gave him something to focus on other than his tumultuous feelings. In spite of his uncertainty about the rest, he wanted to find out what Gerard would think of the idea, and to see him again before the trip to London.

And of course, besides all of that, they had an appointment to finish reading _Athlin and Dunbayne_.

When Frank joined him in the attic that night, Gerard was as awkward and withdrawn as Frank had ever seen him, but that might be for any number of reasons. As for Frank, he had resolved, in the continued absence of any better ideas, to try to act as though nothing had changed. It was strange; before, he had often felt confusion when he was near Gerard, things that he hadn't fully realized twisting inside him. Now there was a confusion of a very different kind--he could look at Gerard and put a name to what he felt, know what he wanted, but it left him utterly uncertain about how to proceed.

"I can't stay too late tonight," he told Gerard soon after he arrived, and Gerard nodded.

"You're going to London tomorrow, I know." He seemed a bit sad, or perhaps simply resigned.

"It's only for a few days," Frank said. "We'll be back soon."

Gerard gave a faint smile. "I know, it's not that. I was just thinking--I know it's only a few days now, but you won't stay with us forever, will you? Someday you'll go back to London for good."

Frank was brought up short by those words. Michael had imposed no time limit on his stay, extending his hospitality to Frank for as long as it was needed. His doctor's instructions were only that he should stay until he noticed an improvement in his health, which he hadn't, as of yet. He himself had never given much thought to the particulars of how long he would be at the manor; he'd had no reason to be greatly invested in staying, before he met Gerard, and afterward he had given very little thought to much beside Gerard himself. But Gerard was right, he would have to leave someday--and after he did, would they ever see each other again?

"I suppose I will," he agreed at last, reluctantly. "I can't say when. But...not yet."

Gerard had his eyes fixed at some point to the left of Frank's shoulder, and his mouth was pressed into a tight line. After a moment, he said in a small voice, "Everyone leaves, eventually."

Frank took a half-step forward, and then hesitated. Part of him--a considerable part--wanted to go to Gerard and offer some sort of comfort, but he wasn't sure how, or if that was a good idea. Before he could make up his mind, Gerard shook his head and tried to smile.

"Don't pay me any mind, Frank, I'm..." he trailed off, and then looked down at the book he was holding as if he'd just remembered it was there. "Would you like to finish this, now?"

Frank's initial plan was to keep himself a bit further away from Gerard than he had the night before, but hopefully not so much that Gerard would think anything amiss. However, when they settled onto the loveseat together, Gerard placed himself very close to Frank, who couldn't force himself to move away. Instead, he tried to focus all his attention on the book in Gerard's hands. Gerard seemed to throw himself into reading just as intently, and for a while, their troubles were forgotten as they delved back into the novel. The story's conclusion was just as exciting as Frank had expected, full of dramatic confrontations and surprising revelations, and, of course, happy endings for some and just desserts for others.

"I see why you like that one so much," Frank said after they had finished.

Gerard smiled. "I've never read it aloud to anyone before. It was a bit like getting to read it again for the first time, seeing your reactions." He closed the book and set it aside, then glanced at Frank. "If you'd like, we could choose another book to begin next, perhaps after you return from London."

"Actually," Frank began, and turned sideways on the loveseat to face Gerard more fully. "I've been thinking about something else we might do when I return. It may be something you don't want to do, but I'd like to at least see what you think."

The disclaimer left Gerard looking at him rather dubiously, but he only said, "What is it?"

"Would you go outside with me?" Frank asked. "I know you said you don't ever feel the urge to, but I think you should."

Gerard cast his eyes downward, his anxiety written clearly across his face. "Why?"

"I think you need to remember what it's like," Frank told him. "If we get out there and you don't like it, very well, but I think you should try."

Gerard stayed as he was at first, looking down and worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth, but then glanced back up at Frank. "You really think I should?"

"I do," Frank replied. "But if you decide you're set against it, I won't press you. For now, I'd just like you to think about it."

Gerard looked at him silently for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. I will."

* * *

The next day dawned gray and chilly, and Michael and Frank left early in the morning. As the carriage pulled away from the manor and turned onto the rough country road, Frank glanced back at the house. He did his best to keep his gaze from lingering too long on the attic windows, and they were too far away by now for him to see anything, anyway, but he could still picture Gerard standing by one of those windows, watching the carriage recede into the distance.

The journey was much the same as the one that brought Frank to the manor had been, simultaneously dull and taxing, but it was made more bearable by having Michael to talk to. The weather stayed overcast, constantly threatening rain but never producing more than a light mist, and it was already quite dark by the time they reached London.

As Frank had expected, it was good to be home. He and Michael dined with his parents as planned, and Frank cheerfully answered all their questions about how he was enjoying his stay at the manor and how his health had been.

It was only when he was preparing for bed (Michael doing the same in the guest room down the hall, the Ieros having successfully pressed him to stay the night rather than depart for the rooms he kept in the city) that Frank found himself thinking wistfully of the manor. By this time he would have been waiting for the opportunity to steal up to the attic, and Gerard would be waiting for him. Instead, he was donning a nightshirt and getting into bed in his old bedroom, and Gerard was hundreds of miles away, alone in the huge house except for the servants.

Frank let out a small sigh and rolled onto his side, still thinking about Gerard. Wondering if he was lonely, if he minded being left behind whenever Michael went to London, even though it was only temporary. Wondering if, perhaps, he might be thinking of Frank right now, an idea that sent an unexpected shiver down Frank's spine.

The next day was much the same. During the day, Michael went off to meet with his solicitors while Frank visited places in the city he had missed, and in the afternoon they met with some mutual friends. Frank had no intention of pining away rather than enjoying himself, but all the same, Gerard never left his thoughts completely. He committed things to memory more carefully because Gerard might ask about them, and often found himself wondering what Gerard would think or say about something if he had been with them (which was pure fancy on his part, given that if Gerard had been in London with them, he would have been a bundle and nerves and anxiety and likely not had much to say to anyone about anything). It seemed incredible to think that a month ago, he had been completely ignorant of Gerard's existence.

All in all, the trip was a pleasant one, but Frank was not as sorry as he might otherwise have been to turn his back on London again and return to the manor.

They arrived back there late, and after a quick supper, Frank meant to wait for Michael to fall asleep and then go up to Gerard. He underestimated his own tiredness, however; intending to simply sit on his bed for a while and wait, he woke the next morning curled up at the foot of the bed, on top of the covers and still fully clothed.

It was a moment before he noticed the piece of paper tucked into his curled fist. He blinked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, and unfolded it. It was a drawing of him in what he recognized as Gerard's hand, but not like the ones he had seen before, the ones where he'd been unaware that Gerard had been watching him--in this one he was looking straight ahead, and smiling.

Gerard had never drawn him when they were together, so Frank supposed he must have sketched the drawing from memory. And he must have come down here sometime in the night, in order to have left it with Frank. Frank blushed at the thought--it wasn't the first time Gerard had been in his bedroom, of course, but that had been before--and refolded the drawing carefully, hiding it in a desk drawer before he left the room.

* * *

"I'm sorry I didn't come to see you last night," Frank told Gerard the next night. "I meant to."

Gerard smiled at him. "It's all right. You must have been tired after your journey." He paused, glancing downward, and added, "And I hope you don't mind that I came to look in on you."

"Not at all," Frank replied, feeling himself flush. "Thank you for the drawing."

"You're welcome," Gerard replied, and Frank saw that he was blushing as well, faintly but noticeably. It could be no more than his customary shyness--it was _likely_ no more than his customary shyness, Frank told himself--but his heart still sped up a little.

What Gerard said next surprised him.

"I've been thinking, while you were gone," he said, looking back up at Frank. "About your idea. About going outside."

"And?" Frank prompted gently. He hadn't expected Gerard to bring it up again so soon, and hadn't wanted to press him, but if Gerard wanted to discuss it, Frank would gladly oblige him. "How do you feel about it?"

Gerard hesitated, then blurted out, "I'll do it, if you want me to."

Frank was instantly touched by Gerard's willingness to do something he had doubts about for a friend's sake, but he bit his lip, looking at Gerard uncertainly. "I don't want you to do it unless _you_ want to. Do you?"

"I don't know," Gerard said. He was sitting down, hands in his lap, and Frank noticed he was wringing them nervously. Frank wanted very badly to go over to him and take Gerard's hands in his own, but he stayed where he was. "I--I get nervous when I think about it, you see. And I know there's no _reason_ to be nervous, it's just going out of the house, but the more I think about it the more nervous I get. So perhaps I should not let myself think so much about it, and just do it, and if it turns out unpleasant, well, at least then I'll know. You see?"

Frank nodded. It made sense, in a Gerard sort of way.

Gerard nodded as well, as if he had needed Frank's confirmation to be sure about his own words, and then stood. "So if you really think I should do it, I say let's go now, before I decide I _don't_ want to."

* * *

It took some time for them to find a coat of Gerard's that still fit him and wasn't in truly dreadful condition, but after enough rummaging, Gerard emerged with one that would suffice. Their first stop upon leaving the attic was Frank's room, where he retrieved his own outdoor gear, as well as a scarf for Gerard, Gerard not having been able to find any of his own.

Gerard had his key with him--it was a skeleton key, Frank had learned, with which he could open any door in the house--and he took them through one of the closed outer wings of the house. It was very dark, the windows shuttered against the moonlight, and Frank gladly took the excuse to slip his hand into Gerard's when Gerard offered it.

When they reached a side door that led to one of the gardens, Gerard hesitated, and Frank squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"Ready?" he whispered as Gerard unlocked the door.

"No," Gerard replied, and pushed it open anyway.

* * *

They emerged into the cool September night, finding themselves standing before an ivy wall with a gate that Frank knew led to a small maze that would take them out onto the moors. Gerard's grip on Frank's hand was tight, and he looked even paler than usual, but he wasn't trying to go back inside, at least not yet.

"Come on," Frank said, stepping forward.

Gerard hesitated, not moving from where he stood. "Wait--where are we going?"

Frank looked back at him, squeezing his hand gently. "Do you trust me?" Gerard nodded at once, and Frank smiled at him. "Come on, then."

Gerard clung tightly to Frank's hand as they went through the maze, and would likely have tripped and fallen if he hadn't; every time Frank glanced back at him, Gerard had his eyes shut, breathing quick and shallow and muttering things too low for Frank to make out. But he kept walking, letting Frank pull him along, and Frank steered them carefully down the hedge-lined path to the gate that led out of the gardens. On the other side, there were only the moors spreading out in front of them, and Frank tugged Gerard forward a few more steps before turning to face him, taking hold of his other hand as well.

"Open your eyes," he urged gently, but Gerard stayed as he was, making a soft, uncertain sound. "It's all right, you can do it. Open them."

Gerard hesitated another moment, and then complied.

His grip on Frank's hands tightened, and he shrank back towards the gate a bit, but stayed where he was. For a moment, Frank almost felt cruel for bringing him out here. It was plain that Gerard wanted to retreat back behind the hedge and yet _didn't_ want to let go of Frank's hands, and by standing his ground and holding on just as tight, Frank was essentially forcing him to remain where he was.

"Oh," Gerard breathed after a moment. He was staring at the open country all around, and his voice was so quiet that Frank had to strain to hear it above the wind. "Oh. I'd forgotten."

"Forgotten what?" Frank asked.

"How _big_ it is," Gerard replied. "There's so _much_ of it. And it's so empty and open, but you could still get lost and never be found."

"But not us," Frank assured him. "Not as long as we stay together, and certainly not so close to the house."

"No," Gerard agreed. "It's just...thinking about it."

"Then don't think about it," Frank said simply, and tugged on his hands. "Come on."

He led a reluctant but unresisting Gerard further out onto the moor, away from the hedge until there was a clear view of the house rising behind it. It was a clear, cool night with a chill in the wind, and they stayed close, shoulders and hips bumping as they stood together.

"I'd forgotten how big the house is, too," Gerard said softly. "I haven't seen it from the outside in so long."

Frank freed one hand in order to push his hair back as the wind blew it across his face, looking up at Gerard. He still seemed a bit ill at ease, curling in on himself with hunched shoulders and his free arm wrapped around himself, but the near-panic of earlier was gone.

"It's not so bad, is it?" Frank asked. "Being out here?"

Gerard seemed to consider the question, and seemed almost surprised when he answered, "No. I've gotten so used to staying inside that it feels very strange to be out here...but it's not bad. It helps that it's night and there's no one else about, I think. Just you and I."

"Just us," Frank agreed, smiling. He took a step back, keeping hold of Gerard's hand, but spreading his arms out. "It's like we've got the whole world to ourselves. And look, the stars are out."

Gerard looked up and gave another soft "oh", but this time there was hushed delight in his voice, rather than fear. He turned in a half-circle, neck craned. "I could never see this many at one time from inside."

"You can never see them this well in the city," Frank said, looking up as well. "Too much smog."

Gerard said nothing in reply, and after a moment Frank lowered his gaze to find Gerard staring at him. With no clouds and the moon not far past full, he could see Gerard's face clearly. His pale skin almost seemed to glow in the cold, silvery light, his unruly dark hair was tossed this way and that by the wind, and his eyes were locked on Frank's face with that disquieting intensity Frank had found himself the focus of before.

"What is it?" Frank asked softly, when Gerard continued to simply look at him.

In reply, Gerard took a step closer to Frank, tilted his head down, and covered Frank's mouth with his own.

Frank stood frozen in shock, his lips parted slightly against Gerard's, their hands still tangled together. Then Gerard started to draw back, his eyes wide and fearful, his own lips parted as if to speak. Frank knew it would be an apology--for forgetting himself so completely, for making such an improper advance--and knew just as surely that those were the last words he wanted to hear from Gerard.

It was he who stepped forward this time, reaching his free hand up to cup Gerard's cheek and pull him down into another kiss. Gerard went willingly, pressing his mouth to Frank's with clumsy fierceness (it occurred to Frank, suddenly, that this may well be the first time Gerard had kissed anyone like this). A moment later, he tore their clasped fingers apart to clutch at Frank's shoulders with both hands, pulling him close.

Frank broke the kiss at last, flushed and gasping for breath, but stayed close, not wanting Gerard to mistake his intent. One of his hands curled around the back of Gerard's neck as the other settled on his hip, and when the wind stung Frank's cheek he turned away from it, pressing his forehead to Gerard's shoulder.

Gerard wrapped both arms around Frank and held him tightly, resting his cheek against Frank's hair. "Frank," he whispered, and nothing else, but that one short word was enough for Frank to hear the tremor of emotion in his voice.

"Yes," he whispered back, as if Gerard had asked him a question. He couldn't find the words for what he wanted to tell Gerard, but he tilted his head up, kissing a path from the corner of Gerard's mouth to his ear before repeating the one word he _could_ find. "Yes."

Gerard turned his head to reclaim Frank's mouth, and Frank closed his eyes and pressed himself against Gerard. They stayed that way, losing themselves in deep, heady kisses, until another gust of wind made them both shiver. Gerard reached up to cup the back of Frank's head, tucking Frank's face back down against his shoulder.

"You shouldn't stay out in the cold," he said, and Frank nodded against him. It was warm in Gerard's arms, but the wind was biting. "Would you--would you come back up to the attic with me?"

"Yes," Frank said again, and lifted his head to kiss Gerard once more, briefly, before drawing back and taking his hand.

It was more difficult to be quiet sneaking back up to the attic than it had been going down; they kept bumping into one another from walking too close, or turning to steal quick kisses from each other, until they managed to knock their heads together instead, leaving Gerard cursing while Frank tried in vain to keep from giggling.

They were both laughing by the time they reached Gerard's room, holding onto one another as they stumbled through the debris that littered the floor. When they reached the bed, however, their laughter fell silent, and Gerard looked at Frank with a mix of desire and uncertainty in his eyes.

"Frank..." he began, and then admitted, "I don't know what to do."

Frank was fairly at sea himself--he had flirted and kissed, but never bedded anyone before. But he knew that he wanted Gerard, and he wasn't going to let lack of knowledge or experience hold him back.

He stepped in close, tilting his head up to press his mouth to Gerard's. Gerard responded eagerly, his arms coming up to wrap around Frank and pull him in even tighter. Pressed flush against him like this, Frank could feel how hard Gerard was, and he broke the kiss with a gasp, pushing their hips together.

"Just--just touch me," he whispered, almost desperate.

They shed their clothing quickly, fumbling with buttons and tossing things aside carelessly in their haste, scattering kisses across bare skin as it was revealed. Frank took a step back to sit on the edge of the bed, and Gerard captured Frank's upturned face in both hands as he bent to kiss him. Frank let his mouth fall open under Gerard's as his hands settled on Gerard's hips, and he moved back further on the bed as Gerard climbed up after him.

From there, it was easy enough to find their way. Gerard's knee slid up between Frank's thighs, and Frank gasped and pushed against the pressure shamelessly. He clutched at Gerard's shoulders, turning his head to seek Gerard's mouth blindly. After a few frantic moments they found a rhythm, moving against each other, every thrust pushing them both closer to the edge.

Gerard's movements became more erratic as he neared completion, his hips working faster and faster against Frank's. He buried his face in Frank's hair, whispering his name over and over, like a chant. Frank's own self-control was stretched almost to the breaking point, but he found himself straining to hold on, not wanting to miss a single thing about the way Gerard was moving and the sounds he was making. When his climax finally hit, it felt like a dam breaking, everything pouring out from inside him as he moaned and thrust against Gerard a final few times.

Gerard pushed up onto his elbows suddenly, staring down at Frank with glazed eyes and a slack mouth. He raised one hand to push Frank's sweat-damp hair back from his brow, looking as though he were trying to commit every detail of Frank's face to memory, and he was still staring when his own release came. Frank had never seen anyone's face in a moment of climax before; there was something patently ridiculous about it, which somehow didn't stop it from being beautiful at the same time.

Gerard stayed braced above Frank until his arms shook, threatening to give out. Then he collapsed onto the bed, turning to the side to land next to Frank, who rolled to face him. Neither of them spoke--the only sound was their breathing, loud and harsh in the still room--but their eyes met, and when Frank reached for Gerard's hand, Gerard gripped it tightly, twining their fingers together.

As the sweat on their bodies cooled, the cold in the room became more noticeable. After a few moments, Frank moved, reaching down to pull the tangled blanket up from the foot of the bed. Once under it, he settled back against Gerard, who wrapped both arms around Frank's waist and nuzzled his neck.

"Will you stay for a while?" he whispered.

"For a while," Frank replied. He would have to return to his own room before morning, but he didn't want to leave Gerard just yet.

* * *

The next thing Frank was aware of was Gerard saying his name, but it sounded muted and far away, as though he were underwater. He felt exhausted, as though he hadn't slept at all. Gerard shook his shoulder, repeating his name more insistently, and Frank groaned and rolled away from him, burying his face in a pillow.

He drifted off again for a few moments, and then was jolted back awake when Gerard lifted him. It was a bit surprising, but he didn't feel like waking up enough to complain or question; he simply reached up to twine his arms around Gerard's neck, nestling against his shoulder.

He didn't stir again until Gerard set him down on sheets that were cold and stiff, without the by-now-familiar musty smell of the attic. Frank's eyelids felt heavy, almost glued together, but he opened them enough to realize how light it was, even closer to daylight than the last time he had fallen asleep in Gerard's bed. No wonder Gerard had carried him downstairs, rather than waiting for him to wake. He mumbled an apology, but Gerard just stroked his hair back and kissed him softly before withdrawing.

Frank had no idea how much time passed before he woke again, but when he did, it was with an ache in his head and throat that he knew all too well, and it wasn't much of a surprise when the first coughing fit took him. He had been careful to bundle up before going out onto the moors last night, but of course, he had then slept naked beneath only a blanket in a drafty attic room. He thumped one hand against the mattress in futile anger, cursing his lack of forethought.

He stumbled down to breakfast only to be sent back to bed by a concerned Michael. Hannah brought him a tray with some porridge and tea, exclaiming that she was sure she didn't know how he had managed to come down with another fever overnight after he had seemed fine at supper yesterday, and Frank held his tongue in guilty silence, staring fixedly at the pattern on his coverlet.

His fever worsened even more rapidly than the previous one had, and Michael didn't wait as long before summoning the doctor again. When he arrived, Frank was barely aware of it, already near delirium.

* * *

Frank remembered the two weeks that followed only dimly, and with confusion. They seemed to him like one long fever dream, full of hazy figures and half-understood words and a sense of time itself moving strangely out of joint. Sometimes Michael or Schechter was there, speaking to him, and sometimes he couldn't see them but could hear them speaking to one another, too faintly for him to catch the words. At other times he forgot where he was completely, and called out for his mother.

At one point, he thought he woke to find Gerard bending over him, and tried weakly to push him away, distressed at the thought that he might be found in Frank's room. The stricken look on Gerard's face was one of the few things Frank remembered with any sort of clarity.

He would only understand later how concerned both the brothers had been for him, neither of them having ever seen him in the grip of an illness this strong before. To him, it was just another fever, worse than the one from a few weeks ago, but nothing compared to the month he had spent bedridden at the age of twelve, or the fever when he was seven, the one that had struck him so viciously that his parents had summoned a priest to give him the Last Rites, fearful that he wouldn't recover. He had been here before; he would suffer until the fever broke, and then things would be better.

It took its time in breaking, but at last there came the other part of the familiar cycle; deep, dreamless sleep from which he woke feeling rested and lucid, though still weak and lightheaded.

When he woke, Michael was already in his room, sitting at the desk. He looked lost in thought, chin propped up on one hand and brow furrowed as he stared out the window.

"Your face will stick like that if you aren't careful," Frank croaked, and Michael spun around, his expression turning to one of mild surprise (which, for Michael, might mean anything from actually mild surprise to shock). He crossed the room in a moment and sat on the edge of the bed, lifting Frank up a little in order to embrace him tightly. Frank winced as his head spun, then paused, unused to such displays of affection from Michael, and then hugged him back.

"You're not to get that sick again while you're here, do you understand?" Michael said in his ear, and in his voice, too, there was more emotion than usual. "I forbid it."

Frank grinned, and reached one hand up to ruffle his friend's hair affectionately. "I'll do my best."

* * *

A light meal was brought up for him, and the doctor was summoned. Frank felt that the former did him far more good than the latter, seeing as the doctor only confirmed what he had already surmised: the fever was broken, but he needed time to regain his strength and should keep to his bed for at least a few more days.

Michael stayed in the room during the examination, but said little, hovering in the background with his arms folded and a closed expression. Schechter showed the doctor out after they all nodded dutifully at his instructions, leaving Frank and Michael alone once more.

Frank had retrieved a book from his bedside table, and was fussing with his pillow and settling back down, when Michael spoke.

"I suppose Gerard will be pleased to hear you're feeling better."

The book fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, landing on the coverlet with a muffled thump. Frank stared at Michael, utterly at a loss.

"He's been very worried about you," Michael went on, quite calmly. He was leaning against the desk, arms still folded, face expressionless. "He even seemed to feel that your taking ill so suddenly was somehow his fault, and as you might imagine, I found it curious that he should feel that way. And when I pressed him about that...well, he's never liked keeping things from me. I'm surprised he managed it so long, but I suppose I have your influence to thank for that."

"Michael--" Frank began helplessly. "I didn't mean--"

"Didn't mean _what_?" Michael interrupted, anger creeping into his voice. "Didn't mean to betray my trust and pry into areas of my home--of my _life_ \--that were none of your business? Didn't mean to deceive me and encourage my brother to do the same?"

Frank bit his lip, flushing guiltily. "I didn't want to deceive you. Gerard was afraid--"

"That I would try to keep you from seeing each other again, yes, he told me." Michael was visibly agitated, a sign of how upset he must be. "Has it escaped your notice, Frank, that Gerard doesn't always have the firmest grasp of reality? Did it not occur to you that I might not react that way? Or that however angry I might be at you finding him, I might be angrier at being lied to for over a month?"

At that, Frank's guilt gave way somewhat, replaced by a sudden rush of anger. He planted both hands on the mattress and pushed himself to sit up straight, ignoring the way it made his head spin. "If it's lies we're going to talk about, then what about you? I've kept things from you that I should have told, very well, I admit that, but you've lied to my face time and time again. You've lied to _everyone_. I didn't know how you would react, because it's become abundantly clear to me that I don't know _you_ half as well as I thought I did."

Michael looked away, his jaw tightening. "I've done what I had to do, for his sake. I'll not be judged for it by someone who doesn't even understand why."

"If I don't understand, then explain it to me," Frank challenged.

Michael looked back at him, eyes narrowing a bit. "If I were in your position, Frank, I wouldn't be trying to pry even further."

Frank looked back at him defiantly, but swallowed hard. "And what is my position, exactly?"

Michael glared at him a moment longer, and then gave a faint sigh, some of the tension dropping from his shoulders. "I don't know."

Frank looked down again. His anger was draining away already, leaving him unhappy and uncertain what to do or say. "I know I shouldn't have gone behind your back as I did. No matter what you did, it doesn't make my actions right, and I'm sorry. I just...I wanted to know what was going on in the house, and once I found Gerard, I wanted to know _him_."

Michael sighed again, sinking down onto the chair beside the bed. It was a little while before he spoke again.

"Gerard said you took him out onto the moors," he said at last, quietly.

Frank nodded, trying to tell if he was about to be reproached again for that. "Yes."

Michael braced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together, looking down at them. "It's been years since he's been at all willing to leave the house. I didn't think he ever would again." He glanced back at Frank, his expression thoughtful without any hostility now. "Your being here has done more to draw him out of himself than anything else I can remember. I'd be a fool not to understand what that means."

Frank settled back against his pillows, knitting his fingers in his lap. "How did he come to be this way?" he asked softly. "You were right, I don't understand everything. Will you tell me?"

Michael hesitated, then nodded. "Very well."

* * *

"I wasn't old enough to really understand what was happening when our parents died," Michael began. "I remember waking up confused and upset because everyone was running around the house and yelling, and being at the funeral and knowing that it was very important for me to keep still and be quiet. I remember my grandmother telling me Mama and Papa were in Heaven now, and I remember asking Gerard if he thought they would be happy there. But I didn't--I didn't know what it all _meant_ until I was older."

Frank nodded. One of his grandfathers had died when he was three, and the experience had been much the same for him.

"Gerard knew. He was old enough to understand, at least, more than I did. And afterward, he had this...fascination with death. Of course it didn't seem at all odd to me, growing up, because he was my older brother and I worshiped him. But looking back on some of the things he used to do, I can see why people thought him so strange, or even frightening."

"Things like asking people what they thought dying felt like?" Frank asked. Michael glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and he nodded. "He asked me. I didn't mind."

Michael gave a very slight smile. "Yes, well, imagine being a friend of our grandmother's who came to tea, and being asked that question by a very solemn seven-year-old. And that wasn't all--he used to collect dead things. Insects or birds or mice, even a bat, once. He wouldn't hurt them, you understand, he would never hurt them, but if he found them already dead, he'd smuggle them into the house and keep them in a box under his bed. A maid found it once and fainted, and wouldn't stay in the same room as Gerard afterward. Helena dismissed her for that."

"She loved him very much, didn't she?" Frank asked. Gerard had always spoken of his grandmother with the deepest affection, bordering on reverence.

Michael nodded. “She understood things I didn’t, then, and I think she worried about him. But she also protected him, made it so that he would never have to face the world if he didn't wish to. As we got older, Gerard started to realize what a strange impression he often made on people, and what some of them thought of him; that's when he started to turn inward instead, to dislike even talking to anyone he didn't already know. And Helena let him do so, let him stay home when she and I went to town or stay in his room when we had company. And when he didn’t want to do any of the things young heirs to their father’s titles are supposed to do—didn’t want to attend balls or keep up with politics or look for a wife—she indulged him in that, as well. I had more interest in society, and he would ask me for stories about the places I’d been and the people I’d met, but he never wanted to go out himself. Except for occasional walks on the grounds, he barely ever left the house. But he had us—Helena and I, and those of the servants who’d been with us long enough to not mind the way he was. He was happy enough.”

“But then Helena died,” Frank said softly, mentally piecing together Michael’s account of things with what he already knew.

“Yes.” Michael’s expression was downcast, and when Frank held out his hand, Michael took it and squeezed gratefully. “It was…different from when our parents died. Better and worse all at once, because we were able to prepare for it a little, and say goodbye to her, but we also had to watch it happen, to know that it was coming and there was nothing we could do. And when it was over, Gerard…well, he went a bit wild. Closer to madness than he’s ever been, I think, before or since.”

Michael rose, pacing back and forth agitatedly as he went on. “And—there were going to be people in the house. Helena’s friends, distant relations we hadn’t seen in years, people from Thornton, which she’d been a benefactress to—a great many people had cause to mourn her, and I knew a great deal of them were going to want to pay their respects. And I thought if they saw Gerard, they would think he was truly mad, even dangerous. I was afraid they would think I couldn’t take care of him without Helena, that they might try to take him away, shut him up in a madhouse somewhere.”

Frank thought of the stories he’d heard of madhouses, of the methods doctors there had employed in the name of ‘helping’ their luckless charges. He thought of Gerard in such a place—Gerard who was strange and off-putting but harmless as a kitten, trapped in one of those places—and shuddered.

“So you hid him,” he said. Of course Michael had—faced with those circumstances, Frank wasn't at all certain he would have done differently.

“Yes. He'd gone up to the attic--he knew as well as I did that the house would soon be full of people, and he was in a panic. I calmed him down as well as I could, enough that he would talk to me, and we discussed it. He didn't want to come down, and I was afraid of what might happen if he did. So I told him that if he wished to stay up there, I would do my best to make sure no one ever found him.

"And that was what we did. I told anyone who inquired after him that he had run away, disappeared in the night, and I think most of them were willing to believe it. Not all of them--you know the gossip that sprung up in Thornton--but I let people think whatever they liked as long as they didn’t pry. He didn’t even attend Helena’s funeral properly; I brought him to the chapel beforehand and snuck him into the choir loft, and he watched from there. And when the funeral was over and everyone had gone, I dismissed the servants I felt I couldn't trust to keep Gerard's presence a secret, then confided in those I did trust and had them help me bring his things up to the attic, set up a place for him to live comfortably."

Michael paced back across the room and sank into his chair once more, sighing. “And that was that. A few family friends or relatives came by from time to time, to look in on me now that I was all alone, but I didn’t encourage their attention, and it stopped soon enough. I kept my life in London separate from my life here. Besides the servants and myself, the only people who knew Gerard was still here were the family solicitors in London. Gerard is Lord Way, and everything we own is in his name, but the lawyers accepted the explanation that my brother hated both travel and the city, and had entrusted me with all our necessary business dealings. It was all far easier than I thought it would be at first.”

"Until I came along," Frank said, guilt nagging at him again.

"Yes, but I could have refused to let you come and stay here," Michael pointed out. "The truth is...I wanted you here, though I didn't realize it until you made the suggestion. I was tired of having to keep all my friends at a distance, and I thought that if I was careful, I could have a guest here and still keep Gerard hidden."

Frank bit his lip. "You didn't know I would be such an awful snoop, I suppose."

Michael shook his head. "That wouldn't have mattered, though, if Gerard hadn't made it so easy for you to find him. I didn't understand how to deal with that--I didn't know how you would react to him, and I thought it would be best to keep to how things had been for so long. But he wants to be around you. He cares about you."

"I care about him, too," Frank said softly. "I know I should have been honest with you, Michael, but I was afraid. I didn't want to lose him."

Michael nodded. "I understand that."

They sat in silence for a moment, until Frank asked, "Where is he? May I--may I see him?"

"He's asleep," Michael replied. "I couldn't tell him no when he wanted to see you, and since then he's been sitting with you as long as he could stay awake." He paused, then added in a low voice, "He asked me if I thought you were going to die."

"Oh, god." Frank flung back his covers and started to climb out of bed, only to have Michael intercept him with a hand on his shoulder. "Michael, I have to--"

"Frank, he's barely slept in days," Michael told him. "And you shouldn't be out of bed yet, in any case."

"But--"

"When he wakes up, I'll tell him your fever's broken. I promise." At that, Frank relented, letting Michael push him back down. "You should get some sleep, too, if you can."

"I'm _tired_ of sleep," Frank muttered sullenly, but he knew Michael was right. As Michael started to draw his hand back, however, Frank caught it, looking up at him. "So...are we all right?"

Michael smiled wryly. "We've both conducted ourselves rather poorly, I think, but for all that, things haven't turned out so very badly. I think we will be."

* * *

When Frank woke again, the pale light coming in through his windows said it was morning. Gerard was there, settled on the floor beside the bed, arms folded on the mattress with his head resting on them, asleep. Frank reached out to touch his hair, smoothing down a few unruly strands, and Gerard leaned into the touch automatically for a moment before he raised his head, blinking his eyes open.

Frank smiled. "You're in my room during the day and we don't have to worry," he said.

Gerard returned the smile, though his was a bit weaker. He got up, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching for Frank's hands. "Michael told me the two of you spoke."

"We did," Frank confirmed. "I don't think he'd made any decisions about what to do yet, but I don't think he'll try to separate us."

"He won't," Gerard replied, with confidence Frank wasn't used to from him. "It was foolish of me to think he might. He's just been trying to protect me, and now he knows he doesn't need to, not with you."

"It was certainly good to get everything out in the open," Frank said. "I just wish it hadn't taken me having a fever to get us there."

Gerard looked down at that, all traces of a smile dropping from his face.

"It's all right," Frank said in a low voice, squeezing his hands. "I'll be fine soon, you'll see."

Gerard didn't argue, but his troubled expression didn't go away, either. After a moment, he said, "I'd forgotten how awful it is."

"What?" Frank asked, brow furrowed.

"Being afraid for someone I love," Gerard said quietly. Frank felt a dizzy swoop in the pit of his stomach at the last word, and opened his mouth to reply, but Gerard wasn't finished yet. "Worrying that I might lose them."

Frank winced, then freed one of his hands to touch Gerard's chin. "Gerard, look at me." Gerard obeyed, and Frank cupped his face in both hands, looking him in the eye. "It was a fever. I've had worse, and had them for longer. Nothing was going to happen."

Gerard shook his head, a stricken look on his face. "But it _could_ have--"

Frank pulled him closer, knocking their foreheads together gently. "But it _didn't_. I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

Gerard still didn't look completely reassured, but he didn't argue any further. He shifted closer, reaching up to thread his hands into Frank's hair, and kissed him with an almost desperate intensity. Frank kissed back just as fiercely, letting himself fall back on the bed as Gerard bent over him. After one night together followed by two weeks of nothing, he was starved for Gerard's touch, and if Gerard hadn't caught the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway and pulled back, they might have been found in a rather compromising position.

As it was, Gerard was on his feet when Schechter opened the door, and he backed up to stand in a corner of the room, as if still nervous about being seen there. Schechter paid him no mind, looking straight ahead as he entered the room, carrying a tray.

Frank sat up in bed, leaning back against the headboard, and reached to take the tray as Schechter handed it over. He noticed at once that there was easily enough food there for two people, but when he glanced up curiously, Schechter offered no explanation.

Instead, he said, "The rest of the staff have asked me to pass along their best wishes for a quick recovery, Mr. Iero. We've all been very pleased to hear you're improving."

Frank smiled up at him. "Thank you, Schechter. And please give the others my thanks, as well."

Schechter wasn't done with him yet, however. "And if I may be so bold as to say so," he went on, "one might hope that in the future, you'll bear in mind the concern everyone in this house feels for your well-being, and show a bit more concern for it, yourself."

It was abundantly clear that he meant 'don't do anything stupid like go out on the moors on a cold night again', and Frank looked down, his smile turning sheepish. "I deserve that, I suppose. And I will bear it in mind. Thank you."

Schechter nodded briskly, and then, with that same self-assured directness, turned to look at Gerard. "And, again, if I may be so bold, it's good to see you come down from the attic, sir."

Gerard looked briefly taken aback, and then gave a very slight smile. "Thank you, Brian."

Schechter gave another nod, then turned and left the room. Frank and Gerard waited until he'd gone, then exchanged glances.

"You know, I've been wondering since I came here," Frank said. "Does he have a sense of humor?"

"You'd be surprised," Gerard replied.

Frank looked down at the tray. "Well, I think the idea here is that you join me for breakfast. Would you?"

"Of course." Gerard came back toward the bed, drawing a chair up to sit nearby. He ended up abandoning the chair when Frank moved over to make room for him on the bed, and they had a leisurely, pleasant meal together, stealing bites from one another's plates and stealing kisses in between mouthfuls.

Michael found them there a while later, still sitting together on the bed and talking in low voices. Frank looked up uncertainly as he came in, not sure how Michael would react to seeing them so intimate, but he only raised his eyebrows a bit.

"Don't forget you're still supposed to be resting," Michael said to Frank, and to Gerard, "And you, don't forget you're supposed to be letting him rest."

"I'm not bothering him," Gerard said, a bit meekly, and then glanced at Frank. "...Am I?"

"Of course not," Frank replied, touching the back of his hand. "But the more rest I get, the sooner I can get out of bed. And as soon as I can get out of bed, we're going outside again. During the day, this time."

Gerard smiled. "Very well."

"Actually," Michael spoke up again, and they both looked at him. "I've been thinking--Gerard, if you'd like to go for a walk outside, you know I'd be more than happy to go with you, don't you?"

He seemed uncertain, and Frank remembered him saying that he hadn't thought Gerard would be willing to leave the house. Gerard seemed briefly surprised, and then a warm smile spread across his face.

"Yes," he said, reaching out to take his brother's hand. "Yes, I think I'd like that."

Michael's smile was smaller, but held the same deep fondness as Gerard's. Frank leaned his cheek against Gerard's shoulder, watching the two of them.

Gerard still had a long way to go to overcome all his fears and anxieties, and perhaps he would never overcome them entirely. But now both Michael and he himself knew that he could make progress, and Frank was determined to help them both in any way he could. Between the three of them, they would find their way.


	4. A World So Small: Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The trip to the Continent was Michael's idea, one he discussed at length with Frank on walks in the garden before they approached Gerard with it. It was where Frank's doctor had wanted him to go from the beginning, and it would be a much-needed change of scenery for the Way brothers, a means to shake off the way they'd been living since Helena's death and try to begin anew.

The problem, of course, was convincing Gerard. With Michael and Frank's combined encouragement, he had continued to make progress in the month since Frank's fever, descending from the attic more and more often. He was still flighty and anxious when it came to interacting with anyone other than the two of them, but he had reached a point where he could take his meals with them, sit with them in the parlor or walk with them on the grounds, and not feel so dreadfully uncomfortable as he once would have.

The Continent would be a different matter entirely; it would be strangers, and crowds, and places where nothing was familiar or safe, and, as expected, Gerard was deeply uncertain when they first discussed it with him. Michael sat with him and held his hand, and Frank hovered nearby, ready to comfort one brother or lend his support to the other, whatever was needed.

"No one will know you there," Michael explained. "It won't be like the people from Thornton, or the servants who used to gossip about you--you'll just be a gentleman traveling abroad, nothing more and nothing less."

"And all the things people think you strange for here may not be at all remarkable on the Continent, anyway," Frank chimed in, hoping it would be helpful. "If what I've heard is at all accurate, it seems as though they encourage strangeness there."

Gerard's mouth quirked up in a smile at that, but he still looked doubtful. "That may be. But--I don't know if I'm ready for something like this."

"You'll be with both of us the entire time," Michael reminded him. "You needn't speak to anyone you don't want to, and we won't stay anywhere if you decide you want to leave." He leaned forward a little, looking his brother straight in the eye, and added, "I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think you could, Gerard."

Gerard wasn't won over yet, but those words clearly left an impression. They agreed to put the matter aside for now, and discuss it again in a few days.

After supper that evening, Frank retired to his room, and had just begun a letter to his parents when he was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?" Gerard asked when Frank opened the door.

"Never," Frank replied, taking his hand to draw him into the room and closing the door behind him.

At first, they had continued to meet in the attic, but as the weather grew chillier, they found themselves in Frank's room more and more often. It was far more snug and pleasant than the drafty attic, and, faced with the question of Frank's comfort, Gerard had grown bolder about leaving his sanctuary.

He stood in Frank's room now and simply looked at him for a moment, then moved forward to cup Frank's face in his hands and kiss him. Frank leaned into it eagerly, mouth falling open under Gerard's, hands sliding from Gerard's chest to his shoulders.

Gerard had grown bolder with this, too, as he learned Frank's body, learned just how and where to touch him. He eased Frank down onto the bed and knelt above him, pushing Frank's shirt up, but when Frank raised his hands to help, Gerard caught them and pressed them gently back down.

He liked this, liked to focus all his attention on Frank while not letting Frank do anything for him, to stay composed and in control while he watched Frank fall apart under his hands. Frank twisted his fingers in the bedclothes and tipped his head back as Gerard's hands roamed over his skin, biting his lip to hold back a moan that might carry down the hall. He was writhing beneath Gerard by the time Gerard's hand finally slid into his open trousers, too far gone to last long, but he managed to stay nearly silent as he spilled into Gerard's fingers, only a ragged, broken gasp escaping.

He lay there panting for a moment, sinking back into himself, and then tackled Gerard onto the mattress, making short work of the fastenings on his trousers. He was rougher and faster than Gerard had been with him, but Gerard didn't seem to mind in the slightest, bucking up into Frank's touch and crying out softly when he reached his climax.

They lay together afterward, curled up in each other's arms, and after a while, Gerard spoke.

"Do you think Michael's right?"

Frank glanced up from where his head was tucked against Gerard's chest. "I think...I think it's like going outside that first time was. You make things harder and more frightening than they need to be by worrying about them."

Gerard craned his neck to look down at Frank, his expression dubious. "Going abroad isn't like going outside, Frank."

"I know," Frank said. "But you're thinking about it the same way, focusing on all the bad things that might happen. Think about all the places we could go, instead, all the things we could see and do together. There's so much out there in the world--don't you want to see it?"

"Yes," Gerard admitted, a bit wistfully. "I'm just...afraid." He pressed his face into Frank's hair, whispering, "I'm sorry, I wish I were braver. I'm trying to be, for you."

"You don't need to do it for me," Frank insisted, and when Gerard made a noncommittal sound, Frank pushed himself up so he could look at him better. "Gerard, I fell in love with you the way you are, and nothing's going to change that. I want you to be braver because I think that would be better for _you_."

Gerard reached up to cup his face in one hand, Frank pushing into the touch eagerly. "I love you," he whispered, and pulled Frank down into a tight embrace, kissing his brow, his temple, the shell of his ear. "I want to be whatever you want me to be."

* * *

"He doesn't have any confidence in himself," Michael said the next afternoon. He and Frank had gone out riding, and were returning to the manor now, horses slowed to a walk so that they could speak. "He used to, but it's all worn down. And I helped it get that way."

He said it matter-of-factly, but his tone didn't need to be emotional for Frank to know how he felt.

"You did what you thought was best," he said. "Gerard knows that, and he loves you for it."

Michael gave a slight smile at that. "I know." He fell silent for a moment, then added, awkwardly, "Since we're on the subject of love..."

Frank looked down, fighting the urge to laugh even as he flushed crimson. Michael had had very little to say about the particulars of his and Gerard's relationship so far, but Frank had suspected he might have to face some sort of brotherly lecture eventually.

"It's become clear to me that I'm not as well qualified to be my brother's keeper as I might have hoped," Michael went on. "And I can see how much you care for him, I know you would never hurt him intentionally. But...well, you know how he is. Just be careful with him."

Frank nodded. "I will," he said sincerely, adding, with a smile, "I expect you'll make me sorry for it if I don't."

" _Immensely_ sorry," Michael promised.

They found Gerard in the library when they returned to the house, sitting cross-legged on the thick rug in front of the fireplace, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. He looked up as Frank and Michael entered, and then spoke.

"If we did go abroad...could we visit the Louvre? Or the Sistine Chapel, if we went to Rome?"

Frank darted a look of happy surprise at Michael, who merely regarded his brother for a moment, and then smiled. "Do you really think I'd go all the way to the Continent and then _not_ want to visit the Louvre or the Sistine Chapel?"

Gerard returned the smile, then glanced back toward the fire, his expression thoughtful. "I've always thought it would be nice. To see all the artwork in those places for myself, rather than just reading about them."

Michael crossed the room and lowered himself down beside Gerard, long limbs sprawling out awkwardly, and then cast an expectant look at Frank, who needed no further urging to join them, tucking himself against Gerard's side. "Then that's what we'll do."

* * *

Another time, Frank determined, he was going to get Gerard in London long enough for him to actually see some of the city. It seemed strange that Gerard should be about to tour the Continent when he had seen so little of his own country, but there had been no time for leisure or sightseeing when they had passed through London last night, and now their carriage was speeding towards Portsmouth, where they would board the ship that would take them across the Channel to France.

Aside from the fact that it had been the natural place to break their journey, their main purpose in stopping in London was for Frank to say goodbye to his parents.

He had told them about Gerard in a letter, giving an account of things that he hoped would prepare them for meeting Gerard and explain why they had never heard of him before, but not leave them too alarmed at the idea of an eccentric attic recluse spying on their son and spending the night in their home. They had been curious, and eager to meet him, not least because he would be one of the traveling companions on Frank's first journey abroad.

Gerard had been nervous, of course; they were strangers, they were Frank's parents, and all the things he shouldn't say or do were doubtless weighing on him when they dined together. But he handled himself remarkably well, remaining pale but composed throughout the meal, and seeming perhaps a bit strange, but not alarming, or alarmed. Spending the night in the Ieros' house put more of a strain on him--he had never slept anywhere that was not the manor, never left the manor for any reason and not returned there before the end of the day. Michael sat up with him in the guest room, and the next morning Frank could tell instantly that neither of them had slept much.

Gerard spent most of the ride to Portsmouth dozing against Frank's shoulder, and Frank let him sleep as long as he could, only shaking him awake when they arrived at the harbor. Michael had climbed out of the carriage first, to see to the transfer of their luggage to the ship, and for a few moments, they were alone.

Gerard was pale and uncertain as he glanced out the carriage window, looking at the ship that was to be their passage to the Continent. It was bound on a voyage around the coasts of France and Spain and into the Mediterranean, and their plan was to cross the Channel in it, disembark and go to Paris first, then travel overland to meet the same ship again in Barcelona and sail on to Italy.

"I suppose it's too late to turn back now, isn't it?" Gerard said softly.

"Of course it isn't," Frank replied. He knew that at a word from Gerard, Michael would order their luggage back onto the carriage roof, tell the driver to turn around, take them straight back to the manor. "But do you really want to?"

Gerard let out a nervous laugh. "If you want the truth, yes." He looked out at the ship again, lips pressed together thoughtfully. "But I've come this far."

"You have," Frank agreed proudly. He reached for Gerard's hand and held it tightly, but said nothing further, waiting for Gerard to make up his mind.

Michael was waiting for them when they stepped out of the carriage, and the three of them proceeded toward the dock together. Frank reluctantly let go of Gerard's hand, substituting a light touch at his elbow, as if to guide him.

There were two men in naval dress waiting for them on the dock. One was taller even than Michael, with a great mass of curly hair that looked as though it were only a moment away from escaping from the queue he had pulled it back into. The other was shorter and stockier, with a scruff of blond beard and piercing blue eyes. As the three travelers approached, the long-haired one glanced at them as if trying to decide which to address--and chose Gerard.

"Lord Way?"

Gerard paused, startled, and glanced over at Michael, who opened his mouth as if to speak, but then paused and looked back at Gerard, raising his eyebrows slightly as if to say it was up to him. Gerard hesitated a moment longer, and then turned back to the man who had addressed him.

"Yes," he said, his voice low, but not so quiet that he couldn't be understood. "Yes, I'm Lord Way."

The long-haired man gave a slight bow, and held out a hand. "Captain Toro, at your service, and this is my first officer, Lieutenant Bryar." He gestured to the blond man, who bowed as well.

Gerard took his hand, smiling a little, seeming to find it easy enough to continue now that he had begun. "I'm very pleased to meet you. This is my brother, and--" he paused again, glancing over at Frank as if wondering how to introduce him. "And our particular friend, Mister Iero."

Toro gave both Michael and Frank the same brisk bow, and Frank found himself momentarily fascinated by the way his hair moved every time he turned his head. He was, he thought, not entirely unsure that Toro hadn't fastened some sort of living creature to his scalp.

"It's an honor to have you all aboard," the captain was saying, ignoring Frank's fixation on his hair. "If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your quarters."

Michael stepped forward to follow him at once, but Gerard lingered, casting one more glance over his shoulder. Frank stayed with him, touching his arm again gently, and Gerard turned to look at him, smiling and briefly covering Frank's fingers with his own. They stood that way another moment, and then turned to follow Michael, proceeding onto the ship together.


End file.
